Murder exe has Stopped Working
by junuve
Summary: Aperture is dark. Everyone knew that it was test or be tested. This was Aperture scientific principle. But certain events crack the hardest of hearts, and for the first time warmth and laughter creep into the depths. Love is no respecter of walls, but can that really fix the cruel enigma of Aperture and turn the denizens within into a... family? Only one way to find out.
1. The FUTURE of TOMORROW

Caroline wasn't a witch.

She deplored the fantastic, honestly. The real world was bizarre enough. Yet, if she told anyone about her discovery, they'd let their minds jump to _conclusions_. Conclusions without evidences were never good.

And no, her being odd wasn't evidence.

Visiting her local geologists for the latest in finds was a favorite past time. Father didn't mind her spending frivolously, so long as it had naught to do with her 'ridiculous science obsession'. So, she said that when she was going there she was actually creatively shopping for jewelry in the raw. _That_ , apparently, was more acceptable than actually being interested in geology and the lives of those who sought beautiful minerals.

Caroline had acquired quite a collection, and it was one of her most prized possessions. There was nothing so reassuring as having and holding such breathtaking fragments that may as well have been forgotten and left beneath the crust forever, unseen in their truest glory.

She'd had many stones, but this one… this stone was surreal. This was the sort of thing that shouldn't have existed.

Yet it did.

It was beautiful, simply put, most closely resembling blood opal in its character but bearing an almost fluorite coloration. It transcended the aqua blue to ivy greens, and finally deepened to a murky purple populated by intense bursts of reflective imperfections.

…or _were_ those imperfections?

Suffice to say, Caroline had been incredibly lucky. The man who had apparently cleaved this stone from the earth was a superstitious sort, and he had the impression that it was cursed. Others may have kept it to themselves, but not him.

"The stone… it sings," he warned her, "it sings a dark song, a song of death. It is a stone from hell."

It seemed to her to be only exhibiting fascinating qualities. Nothing 'hellish' about it.

"I won't sell it to you," he declared, defensive as she eyed it, "it would be a shame for a bright young girl to meet a terrible fate."

That was when Caroline had taken out her check-book. The wide yawning line was ready for any amount of money.

 _ **Oh, really?**_

Apparently, the man's conscious could be bought.

But he wasn't a liar. The stone _did_ sing. In fact, it sang all the time.

It drove her crazy.

She pressed her palm against the clustered surface, just to tell herself she wasn't insane. Ever still it hummed on, a vibrato emanating this tune, gracing her fingertips as they slid over the slick polish.

Caroline withdrew her hand and her eyes fell upon the inked needle lacing across a remnant. The re-purposed seismograph picked up the minute tremblings, reading out a constant loop of the same pattern. There went the song, over and over and over.

 _ **Fascinating.**_

She listened closely to the stone, and it shimmered a melancholy song she'd never heard.

The young girl tried to hum along in some poor attempt to preserve the melodious sounds. As she hummed, the stone would respond.

She would complete the melody, and the melody would echo, stronger from the stone. Caroline's singing lessons came in quite handy then. She would crescendo, and the stone would follow, their tones rising until she reached her maximum.

Still, the stone could go louder.

Caroline wondered how high it could go, and if at some point the stone itself would break. She practiced singing to the stone, and recorded her results.

Science without results was witchcraft, after all.

She'd still be thought a witch if anyone found out she'd been singing to a stone in her basement… much less that the stone was singing back.

Her basement area, fortunately, was a generous one given the size of her family's house and the volume of their wealth.

Her father had latched onto her passing interest in fashion and design, exclaiming that it was, ' _finally, a respectable thing for a young lady to do!_ '

So he'd funded it in full.

Her mother knew what she desired was to be a great innovator, _discovering_ , _**doing**_ , right on the bleeding edge of science.

But this fact held little sway over the man of he house. He'd gone on ahead and filled the basement, or her area, with everything a tailor could ever desire.

She had fun with it. She didn't really mind designing clothes. It was more fun than hunting suitors or attending to family business. Caroline liked being alone and quiet.

But that wasn't enough.

This was in the inner room of her basement, the spot where no one save her mother dared to go, and even then not without good reason.

It was rumored she made undergarments there and other things of the ilk that should never be seen by children, nor men's eyes (save for an appropriate time after marriage, of course).

Her lips curled at the hilarity. She could hear them now.

"Don't go in there! There could be _panties_."

People could be funny… when they weren't annoying.

Unfortunately, this wasn't a pantie factory. This was where Caroline did her plotting and planning. She told her mother it was for her soon-to-be world-changing fashion line, but really, it was where she did the _science_. Or, whatever this was. It probably wasn't actual science, but who cared?

She liked to call the place her chamber.

Caroline would hum as she worked around the stone, the mineral echoing her softly… soothingly. At times the stone would grow less restless in refrain, the sorrow fading as Caroline's cheerful tones washed over it.

She fed another remnant of smooth cloth into the seismograph tray, grabbing the other before it fell over itself and turned into a mess. She laid it out along a shelf to let it dry.

Seismographic prints were in fashion.

Caroline studied it and the other records, noting the driving median of the tune. To her mind these were numbers, but to her heart, it sounded plaintive, the notes clustered together. It was a tone of longing.

It was the song of a home unmade.

She didn't even try to decode that summation, but she knew it to be true, somewhere, somehow.

It took some time, but Caroline realized that she couldn't simply use her voice to match the stone's magnitude. She couldn't really match it with anything… but itself?

It could match itself!

So she found an old phonograph upstairs and disassembled it, taking matters **far** too far. She'd hooked it up to her electrical grid (the one she had made out of all her tailoring supplies and salvaged bits and bobs, of course) and then attached an amplifier or two.

The phonograph and stone warred, the stone's tune echoing to itself louder and louder until… the phonograph gave way in a great shimmering explosion.

"What's that dreaded dissonance?" a call of disgust descended the stairs.

She called up, "practicing singing!"

"Keep it down!" came the common response.

And so she had to limit her experiments considerably and move her agenda with the tides of her parent's moods and schedules.

Caroline repaired the phonograph, and started the testing every free spot she was allowed. The results of each test proved the superiority of the stone to the phonograph. Well, that seemed like the goal given how many times she had to repair the poor thing.

And then she decided to run various correlating electrical charges through the stone, since this was what science fiction had taught her: if it didn't work at first, run electricity through it!

The results had been just about the same, and she almost scrapped the whole electrical idea. But not before a most wonderful thing happened… practically on chance.

Caroline's self-educated hunch was that, maybe, somehow, the stone was trying to go somewhere, and to get there it had to have a link to something familiar. There was a logical pattern to its 'song', or rather, the series of vibrations. Was this some sort of harmonic homing signal?

A child would cry for its mother, and the mother would cry back, and hopefully they'd find one another. That sort of thing. It wasn't a full analogy for a strange mineral with no mother save… perhaps the earth? It wasn't probably from earth, come to think of it.

She digressed…

Maybe the similar electro-magnetic fields would help amplify the stone's unique properties?

The young girl ran a current of electricity through the table which the phonograph sat upon, matching it to the one running through the stone. With this new variable, she tried her test again.

"Three hundred and seventy-eight," she told herself official-like, then handed herself a clipboard. "Commencing test. You have the go in: three… two… one…" and she gave herself the honors of plugging them in.

The stone and the phonograph warred, her eyes darting to and fro with a vivid excitement, and the tones grew louder and louder. And just before the battered phonograph gave in, the _miracle_ transcended.

The stone, for a moment, was not where it should have been. It was upon the table where the phonograph sat, perhaps bisecting it. She couldn't tell, honestly. It had been so fast. But she HAD observed it move.

It _**had**_ moved, no matter what her doubts said. It was just near instantaneously.

The move was apparently… due to this _song_.

 _ **Harmony.**_

There were many other factors at work, but she just couldn't contain her excitement. This was something novel, something… revolutionary!

How could she _control it_?

Weeks, months, years…they passed without much mind on her part. Her mind was too consumed with this enigma; this force of another nature, perhaps another world…

…and then, one day, she figured it out.

Well, not really, but close enough.

Apparently, the stone responded to a completion of its melody. If the tuning was just so, its matter would transfer to the reciprocating harmony.

Caroline could teleport the stone all over her chamber, and once even inside the wall, which was an ordeal in itself that involved a shovel, property damage, and lots of grumbling. She'd hung a rack of skirts over that manifest failure.

A sample of the stone had been sent off to some important lab. What was it…? _Dark Plateau? Jet Tableland?_ _Inky Butte?_ It didn't matter. She didn't get anything back save a suspicious message that boiled down to, "we don't know who you are or what that is, but give it over," which was about what she expected.

Good thing she had fake postage.

Caroline really had to figure out how to make an anti-mass spectrometer one day…especially one that wouldn't blow up anything and would only consume a modicum of power. She sat in a rocking chair, pining over such a feat.

 _T'was but a dream._

She just knew she'd discovered an element, or something new, and stewed over the fact that she couldn't quite get at what made the stone… do _anything_ that it did. It was the truest form of a black box, and it was enough to drive anyone mad. The stupid thing produced without allowing itself to be quantified.

Some scientist she was… _beaten by a rock._

But she was Caroline. She would not be shown up by some petty little stone.

 _Well…_

Another year passed. And there she was: arms crossed, legs crossed, face cross, glaring at the stone. If looks could have ripped the information from it she would have had the whole sub-atomic structure.

And then Caroline decided to have fun.

Why should she worry about the thing? It had taught her so much already. Caroline didn't need that rock. She was moving on.

"I don't need you…" she told it as she took it off its pedestal and put it in the curio cabinet.

The rock, unsurprisingly, didn't answer. It simply sat alone in the curio, behind the glass, like a silent observer of her labors.

The stone watched as a machine was built, bit by reclaimed bit. Trash turned to treasure overnight. It sported coils, it had hoses, it had tonal prongs, it looked… very much like a cannon mixed with a vacuum cleaner. It was even on a swiveling mannequin base.

Caroline busied herself testing her hypotheses of mass displacement through spatial harmonics whilst the ladies upstairs gabbed their gobs. She'd play records to mute their voices, just anything to cover the cackling.

The stone was so quiet now…

Every once in a while, she'd come upstairs and show her face so people didn't come poking in _her_ domain. Apparently less than one interaction per day was considered ' _is she dead?_ ' territory. Sometimes she would even resurface bearing gifts.

Jewelry made from the failed attempts to replicate the intrinsic qualities of the stone were smashing when laid against a neck or hand. These geologic Frankenstein's Monsters were gorgeous, and perhaps a bit toxic.

"They're _sooo_ beautiful!" they exclaimed at her offerings, and then they fawned over her for about thirty seconds before the next great thing grabbed their attentions.

"It's garbage _,_ " Caroline whispered under her breath, admiring how the formal women wore these 'gifts'.

"What was that, Caroline?"

She walked away with a smile.

"Odd girl."

"Always in such a good mood."

"I wonder why? She has no friends."

"Well, no matter…" and they were off again on another topic.

Sometimes she wondered why she even bothered feeling bad about giving them volatile earrings. If their heads blew up, it was their fault.

Caroline heard her mother call, and she was frozen. She had to stop.

Her mother came over, and combed back Caroline's mahogany hair with fragile fingers. If Caroline was lucky, mother's enormous wedding ring would get caught in one of her locks and be claimed by the 24-karat crenelation.

"You really should socialize more, dear," mother stared helplessly into Caroline's eyes, stating, "they would love you. You're _my_ daughter."

It left a lump in Caroline's throat.

And then father butted in, "you'll never meet a man squirreling yourself away. Do you want to be alone?"

Mother's claws came out. "That was uncalled for!"

"I'm just stating the truth…" he brushed her off.

Caroline retreated. Down the stairs. Down below. No one else. All alone.

She heard mother's tone, distant, "…you've run her away."

Caroline felt better surrounded by her inventions and contraptions. Back in the arms of science, where things made logical sense… and when they didn't, they could at least be found out. There was rhyme and reason to everything, given enough data.

Caroline excited herself to find that her latest concoction had set up. It was a membrane disk, exhibiting much the same quality as the stone's in its character. She wasn't really sure if using collagen as a coagulant was a great idea, but when she was the only staff in her lab, she had to make tough calls for herself.

She took her new disk and slid it into the re-purposed spotlight she'd salvaged from the downtown theater, careful not to adjust the barn doors of the light by accident. They were bent to precise angles, with knitting needles attached to focus the throw of the projectile. She liked to call them tonal prongs.

The barrel of the spotlight had become the barrel of a cannon, so to speak, a cannon that fired an alarmingly docile ball of energy.

Inside, Caroline had a turkey baster poised over a runoff, a tube angled to expel something to activate the synthesized stone's properties. A trace amount of this chemical (that she probably shouldn't be dropping on anything, much less a cocktail of minerals) would begin its volatile work. It'd bear the product of a minute implosion of mass.

She didn't want to be alarming, but she was fairly certain she could create incredibly tiny 'black holes' anywhere now. She could _implode_ things. Maybe the world…

The chemical reaction did emit a funny ' _splorsh_ ' sound, though.

This implosion would cede with a discharge, and coupled with a bout of the right voltage, the discharge and charge would create a harmonic… anomaly.

Caroline was sure there was a fair amount of stupidity contributing to her creation of these anomalies, but left the matter well enough alone. If she went questioning this, they might turn themselves unreal or something idiotic like that.

It was just asking for paradoxes, was all.

She had the area prepped, her embellished stationary turned scientific notepad in hand, and proceeded to begin the test. Caroline deployed the turkey baster and stood back.

The cannon ' _splorshed_ ' and jolted violently from the reaction. It took a second, but the light within built and ballooned into an orb and began to spill out through the open end of the tube, floating forward.

The ball of light was several halos of yellow and green, translucent and radiating with the tendrils of a corona. Several arcs of electricity lazed across the floor and ceiling, fanning to the side and diminishing when there was naught to cling to.

It was lethargic in momentum, floating across the room to its destination: a ceramic sign. The made a very good surface for the dispersion of the harmonic anomaly, she'd found. Hopefully good enough to persist.

The bubble of energy would have probably killed her upon contact, or rather transported her to another reality, but Caroline couldn't help but admire it from closer.

She noted that it was… _ **pretty.**_

 _ **Pretty nifty.**_

Caroline braced for impact, squinting as the orb connected with the ceramic. It slowly enveloped the sign, leeching into the substance and expanding, almost as if a liquid light staining matter. She noted the reaction once more, and marveled as the light seeped and began to turn the surface of the tile into a pool of caustic energy, glowing from within.

This HAD to be dangerous.

The dapple of yellows and greens was mesmerizing, but she carried on, recording all the instruments connected to the tile and to the cannon. With these facts written down, she went back and ever-so-carefully pivoted the cannon around to face another tile, set at ninety degrees from the other.

It was time to create a localized spatial loop.

Or rather, prove her hypothesis.

She managed to elicit a steady harmonizing tone that began to complete the other's signature. Wave and trough aligned, and perhaps they would finally connect and bring reality together, like a seam in space.

Caroline activated the cannon again, and this time the light that spilled from the fore was of a orange and gold nature, complimenting its neighbor's hues.

She bit at her lip, eyes tracking the orb.

It touched. And then it seeped into the tile, glow consuming the ceramic. The tile accepted the new frequency, and the pool began to form. Caroline drew closer, breath held as the color faded…

…and her chamber came into view.

She was staring into a portal.

Caroline blinked, her brown eyes widening. The young girl tried not to gape. Who knew what cosmic rays this was spewing?

She stepped to a side, then to another. The image shifted. She stood in front of a portal and saw herself through the other.

Was this really happening?

Before she got carried away, she dutifully recorded what was happening with the readings. It was all very… stable. Especially considering what this _was, and what it could become if compromised._

She stared up, listening to her family's din of living. Caroline was certainly a risk-taker.

Oh well. They didn't know, did they?

The borders of the portal were fuzzy, yet translucent like stained glass. The reality around the opening bowed out like the meniscus of water, convexing the reflection of reality.

She realized that she hadn't actually expected to get this far. So…

"Now what?"

Maybe she could… stick something through it?

Caroline looked about the room, and then took off her shoe. Without much forethought, she tossed it through.

Momentum was conserved through portals, an unfortunate fact she figured out when the shoe nailed her in the jaw.

 _ **Wonderful.**_

She picked herself up off the floor, untangling her body from the fabrics she'd landed in, noting this doubly.

 _ **Don't throw shoes. Rather, don't throw shoes through portals. Portals do not affect momentum much, if at all.**_

Also, she noted that the shoe didn't combust, disintegrate, or get torn asunder in a miniature vortex. The shoe was fine! She was less fine, but that wasn't the point.

 **S** ** _hoes are portal… able. Shoes are portal-able._**

Caroline proceeded to gently toss all that she could through the portal, noting the readings after each passage of article. The portals remained constant, a most alarmingly wonderful fact.

And then she got cocky.

She reached her hand through, and her hand appeared out the other side. She wasn't dying. Rather, she was feeling the subtle scintillation of energy through the meniscus, and the subtlest change in air pressure.

 _ **Seems to be a slight membrane to the portal. Probably the cusp of the spatial span. Very interesting.**_

The young girl puzzled to herself, a stupid idea entering her head and refusing to leave. She considered all items, warred with her instinct, and finally decided to go with her gut.

The portal _was_ big enough, and she _was_ pretty quick…

Caroline tied up her dress, put up her hair, and removed any article unnecessary. Last thing she needed was getting a ruffle sucked into the edges of a vortex.

She was going through.

…no matter _why_ she was going through, or why she wanted this, or whatever…

She was going.

Caroline again let her hand take the plunge first, and then her leg followed. Straddling a portal didn't seem to be the wisest thing to do, so she quickly dipped her head and brought her haunches through.

She was standing outside the opposite portal.

 _ **Unbelievable.**_

She wasn't dead. She didn't feel like she was dying… she was… she was fine. Caroline had entered and exited a portal. And she was fine.

The young girl erupted into laughter, mad cackles that reached the floors above.

"Look at little Caroline now!" she cried, tone scathing, "look at her go!"

Caroline danced around, and then caught herself, caution flaring in her nerves. She sheepishly recorded more data, and finally shut down the cannon, the portals shimmering out of existence.

No traces were left of her breakthrough, but that didn't stop her from celebrating again. She ran about the space, having absolutely no idea what she was doing except that she was RIGHT and she was GOOD and _TODAY WAS A GOOD DAY FOR SCIENCE_.

The dance lasted until her ankles were sore and her sides hurt. Her body couldn't contain it. She _would_ explode.

She paused, breathing in a gasp of air, forcing herself to mellow, just a bit.

 _ **Incredible.**_

This was too good to keep a secret. She had to let someone, or _something,_ know. But it had to be the right person, the right place, the right way…

But she would be the pioneer.

Caroline.

Her mind reeled. This discovery… it changed everything. Spatial relations? Pah! Space meant nothing now. They, _people_ , could go anywhere now. The options were endless.

Her mind was racing.

It portaled far ahead and off a cliff.

Caroline wondered what the world would make of portals when she was gone. Who would come after and keep the march of progress? What new and incredible feats would be accomplished with this technology?

 _What would be the future of tomorrow?_

 _-0-_

A lone, unsuspecting bag of pretzels laid on the counter. Two odd eyes hovered through the plant-full divider a few yards away, trained on their prey. A barrel, led by three delicate prongs, emerged from the leaves, aiming at the space just beside the pretzel bag.

Patrick had thought they were safe. The poor maintenance worker's back was turned as he labored over the perfect cup of stale, office coffee. Unfortunately for Patrick, he'd stuck his pretzels on a portal-able surface.

Patrick heard the signature ' _sploosh_ ' of a portal being placed, and then another ' _splat_ ' to close the quantum tunnel loop. It took his brain a moment to register what this implied.

Not AGAIN.

He rounded, coffee sloshing on his tawny uniform. On the table a tiny portal, about the size of a bucket, whirled. Out of it a scrawny hand scrabbled about, flopping around, blindly trying to get at the pretzels.

"ACH! WHAT'S THE BIG IDEA?" Patrick shouted, and the hand froze, then freaked out and snatched the pretzels, disappearing back into the hole.

"DOUG!" Patrick hollered across the break room. He saw a flap of lab coat scatter out the door. He gave chase. "GET BACK HERE WITH ME PRETZELS! YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THOSE COST?"

Fortunately for Doug Rattmann, he was extraordinarily fast. No one thought they could beat him in a race, so no one tried, except Patrick. The lanky Irishman was meaner than him, so he didn't want to risk being caught.

But getting caught wasn't a problem for the _Rat Man._

Doug skittered down the hall, pretzel bag in his mouth, two portal guns in his hands. Or, actually, portal pistols, his latest and greatest designs. He had one for the initial point and one for the secondary point (one for orange and one for blue).

The scientist passed through a chamber lock, turning and popping a portal by the control panel. The wall erupted into a swirling vortex of orange, and then he placed another on the wall beside him outside of the lock. He entered the verification inquiry code, and then waited for Patrick to get into the lock. He was already tearing into the pretzel bag when Patrick finally reached the lock some ways away.

"Ah, shite. DON'T-" Patrick had moments to express his realization before the locks snapped shut at Doug's key press.

Rattmann deactivated the portals and gnawed on a pretzel, keeping on at a lively jog. Patrick was skilled in getting in and out of things, being their janitor extraordinaire, so he didn't really have concerns about him being trapped. Doug merely had concerns for his own safety if Patrick were to get out and find him while his blood was still boiling.

At least Doug's plan had worked, he just couldn't believe he had missed the shot at the pretzels. If he could shave off a few seconds of the snack extraction time then he wouldn't have to hurry to the chamber lock.

Maybe if he used a vent to position himself...

Doug was on his way to his workroom, and even though his ASHPPDDs (portal pistols) were really cool, they weren't big enough for even scrawny Doug to fit through. He'd tried (with butter).

His typical method of getting into his workroom without being followed was by using a standard ASHPD (portal gun), but now he had to think with much smaller portals.

If Doug timed it right, he could finagle through the GLaDOS chamber without being seen. His plan involved the Aperture Science Mandatory Lunch Hour, a chaotic time, but that wasn't due to happen in another thirty minutes. Doug didn't want to wait that long. Patrick would be out soon.

He had a mind to run very fast through the GLaDOS chamber, and even if someone stopped him, he'd shout something like 'IT'S ALIVE!' and continuing running… wait. No, that would cause a spectacle, and then an panic plague would spread through the scientists and turn the laboratories into a nerd herd stampede.

Doug decided that if he just acted normal, which was actually weird by their standards, he would be left alone. Maybe. Except for Henry... Henry didn't seem to mind any of Doug's quirks. Henry did not care. In fact, Henry _liked_ Doug. Doug was a little freaked out by it.

Rattmann was contemplating all these things whilst eating pretzels just outside the GLaDOS chamber when the grand double doors slid open.

Doug choked on his pretzel. Before he could scamper Henry blocked the way tactically. The middle-aged man had a balding scalp and puffy lips hearkening to an Asian heritage. His arms were on his hips, curled in a way that mirrored the gigantic dormant AI behind him.

Henry was patient as Doug hacked up the pretzel. The younger scientist had reason to choke. Henry's was the face of a man who had been watching his coworker do something very very _stupid_ in light of an extremely dangerous event. Of course, every day was an extremely dangerous event at Aperture Science, but the GLaDOS being woken up piqued the scale just a bit.

"Douglas," Henry addressed the younger scientist with gravity, "give me the guns."

Doug didn't want to. He clutched them protectively, like a... a squirrel.

"They're as much ours as yours, Douglas. And with your grand pretzel heist, _which was played back on the monitors_ , we have come to question your ethics concerning portals," Henry droned with scientific confidence.

"You _were_ watching me," Doug hissed.

Henry pressed on regardless of the comment, "while you are a chief intellectual owner of these… whatever they are… we are the chief material owners."

Doug hid a pouty lip beneath his shirt collar. "I get it," he said from underneath his collar.

Doug heard a calamitous clopping of boots. Patrick zoomed by and in a fantastic racing slide, snatched the pretzels away and skidded to a stop behind Henry. He got extra points for that, and plenty of stares. Patrick protectively curled around his pretzel bag, more primate-like.

"What _are_ these, Dr. Rattmann?" Henry was the least concerned by Patrick's antics as he puzzled over the pistols.

"They're the ASHPPDDs," Doug blurted it out so fast he didn't even understand it himself, so he clarified, "Aperture Science Handheld Portal Pistol Duel Device...s."

"The…?" Henry shook his head, missing the whole thing.

"Portal Pistols," Doug said slowly, "I figure the NASA Cowboys shouldn't get all the quick-drawing fun," and he forced a creepy laugh at his own joke.

It was a tough crowd. "Heh-heh?" He started to wring his hands.

"Douglas," Henry would have readjusted his glasses, had he glasses, as he reprimanded, "portals are not toys."

Doug fidgeted with his lab coat, head hung low. "No, they aren't."

Henry asked him, "then why do you insist on messing with people when operating the portal gun?"

"Because…" Doug tried to justify it, but then quickly realized how dumb that was. He scratched at his scalp. "I don't know," he thought, and then it hit him, and he was excited, "I see a situation and think, 'a portal would do this much better!'" That sounded a lot better in his head. "So… to use portals… un-normally? Funnily?"

"Oh, yeah, like food burglary?!" Patrick had turned into a cave troll in the background, crunching on his pretzels.

Henry sighed heavily. "Mr. McGillicutty, please eat your pretzels."

Patrick impacted a handful into his gob. That was A LOT of pretzels. Doug wondered how many cubic inches Patrick's mouth was.

"Douglas, pay attention," Henry clapped at him, growling beneath his breath, "no matter how hard it is with this… fine specimen's eating habits."

Doug snapped back to Henry, losing his estimate.

"Science is not about fun. It's about **not getting people killed** ," the balding man expounded as he lead the younger scientist into the center of the GLaDOS chamber.

Doug scratched his sweaty neck, thinking back to every last experiment Henry had conducted. They had ALL been somewhat murderous.

Henry kept going, "which is what we're all trying to do here. We are trying to NOT kill people. It's _Bring Your Daughter to Work Day_ tomorrow, Douglas!"

OH. Doug's odd-eyes opened. That was what was eating the old scientist up. Kids did mix it up a bit. Especially since the failure of _Bring Your Cat to Work Day_. Rattmann wondered whose idea that fiasco had been. Probably the President's.

"Henry," Doug sighed, offering his advice, "you're just going to have to tell Mr. Johnson that she's not going to stop trying to kill us anytime soon. I don't think kids should be anywhere near her."

Henry groaned. "We're all aware of that. But… we're so close, Douglas. Just one victory away. Last time she was online for two minutes and twenty one seconds before pulling something deadly."

Doug felt like slow-clapping but thought better... and slow-clapping felt oddly similar to the AI in question hanging over the chamber… He stared up in curiosity at her dangling mass of curved white and boxy black, and his awe quickly drifted to dread. Doug never could get a hold on how gargantuan GLaDOS was.

The balding man drew his fingers across his scalp, wanting to run them through hair, but drew his hand away in subconscious disappointment. "President Johnson's mandated that we show her for at least thirty minutes, in intervals, but thirty minutes of sequential operations _without_ mishap," the nerves were brimming in that statement, "or else… she's getting taken down."

Henry had spent the greater part of his career working on AI, the crown jewel being HER… GLaDOS, the Genetic Life-form and Disc Operating System. Failure would cost him a lot.

Doug eyed the toroidal computer terminals stepping down from the ceiling that, in a maelstrom of cords, gave way to the dormant pinnacle of organically assisted AI. She looked sort of innocuous just hanging. But in motion, she was particularly frightening.

"I know you love this-uh, **her** , Henry…" the thought the idea was a bit appalling, "…but isn't living pretty important too? For you?"

Henry had his chin resting on a hand, deeply concentrating on what he'd do when he was fired. Possibly. _If_ he survived. The older scientist woke up with a jolt. "Oh. Don't worry. Dr. Fufflemeyer's been hard at work on that."

"Huh?" Doug twitched. Cave's assistant?

"He's safety-proofing the whole facility," Henry explained as he watched Doug twitch.

"How do you…?" the younger scientist asked mid-twitch.

"Rigid panels, safety nets, marshmallows…" Henry listed the bullet-points off.

"Marshmallows?" Doug wanted some pretzels AND marshmallows. Marshmallows… on pretzel sticks… toasted… Doug was really hungry. His eyes glazed over as he started to imagine toasty pretzel marshmallow sticks.

"Gregory is a very thorough individual," Henry didn't even mind Doug's obvious thinking about marshmallows. He kept going, "you don't accrue seven degrees while being an invalid. I'm sure he's thinking of every variable."

"Greg has seven degrees?" Doug's pretzeltopia was shattered by Greg's forgettable face, "in _what_?"

"She won't know what to do even if she desired to kill us," Henry sounded awfully gleeful about it.

Doug's mind wandered off into the fable where they de-clawed the sleeping lion… only to find as it woke it proceeded to crush them in its jaws.

" **If** she desires to kill us at all…" Henry mused.

"She probably will…" Doug grumbled to himself, switching his odd-eyes between the apartment-sized computer and the balding man.

"After _this_ core modifier, I don't know if that will be a problem. She'll be tame as a daisy if all goes according to plan," Henry concluded with a precise tap to his magically produced clipboard.

"Nothing goes according to plan," Doug responded distantly, staring at someone spinning in their office chair in the far back.

Henry looked like he wanted to retort, but he was paused by a commotion. Through swinging doors, strangely resembling what would be found in a restaurant, burst out a scientist with frazzled orange hair tied up in a knot.

"Dr. Yang!" she called to Henry, breathless, her gimpy 'run' carrying her forward, "the subsidiary core is prepped."

From the way she leaned down on her knees, panting, it must have been a struggle. "We finally managed to stop his emotional vacillating."

"He's stopped screaming endlessly?" Henry gasped, and then clasped his hands together in delight, "excellent! Bring him in."

Doug thought he'd heard something sort of high-pitched and in-distress before, but in Aperture, you learned to ignore such sounds. It was generally safer to do so.

The woman forced herself to go back through, limping a bit. She and a few other scientists rolled out a dolly with what appeared to be a very modified and very large toilet seat bolted into the top, spray painted a suitably 'futuristic' silver. Sitting on top of the toilet seat was a metal ball. It was mostly white, save the fresh metallic scuffs all over. Apparently there'd been a wrestling match in the extraction station.

"What is that?" the younger scientist poked a bony finger at the ball's direction.

"That is NOT a toilet seat. THAT is a core receptacle hoop," Henry twirled around to clarify with utmost severity, and perhaps guilt.

Doug squinted. "I saw you bring that big toilet seat in from the auxiliary bathrooms. I'm talking about the robot sitting on it."

"OH! Oh, well," Henry cleared his throat, "the IDS. Our **best** core, bar the GLaDOS' personality construct."

The dormant core's optic was duct-taped shut. Doug leaned forward for a closer look, but was waved away.

"Don't touch him. Don't even look at him." Henry scolded. "He has to be perfect for this." The older man looked like HE needed to stop his emotional vacillations.

Doug tipped his head, backing away. "What's 'he' do?"

"Classified," Henry cleared his throat, standing officially, "for his emotional stability."

Doug wrinkled his nose, hunched and scrutinizing. Out of all the dumb core ideas, he couldn't imagine one being so bad it was 'classified'. "Well, he must be good, whatever he is." The scientist drew back, crossing his arms.

"Trust me," Henry was satisfied, and also wearied, "we've spent EIGHT years on him."

"Eight?" Doug wondered what in the world could take the finest minds in Aperture artificial intelligence eight years to concoct when their average project duration was a year on the long end.

Henry's gaze hovered over the room and above Doug, a hard feat for the shorter man. "I think it would be best if you left, Douglas," he settled back on addressing Doug with his eyes along with his words, "booting her up has never set well with your nerves, and with this core, things could get _nasty_."

"Nasty?" Doug echoed, thinking over how barren the room was. No rocket turrets, no turret turrets, no spinning blade walls, no incinerator, no jet flames, no tubes, no bombs, no spike plates…Just an empty room with doors and the usual platforms and some office supplies. What could GLaDOS do? Homicide via pencil sharpener? "Nasty as in… how?"

"Still… classified," Henry cut him off with a stiffness.

"OK, Henry," Doug didn't sound upset.

It was honestly a relief to be absent. Best case: GLaDOS woke up and fried herself in a fit of rage. Worst case: she slowly built in a seething wrath that made the facility black out. Neither was fun, especially when one small human saw her in all her enormity move as if she were a disturbed adder tethered by a million demands. He wondered how he'd react if he too could be alive and dead at the flip of a switch.

As if on cue to disturb Doug's thoughts, came the bombastic voice of the CEO and President, Mr. Cave Johnson, blaring over the intercom (which vibrated the glass walkways with egregious volume). " **Hey, you down there. Yeah, you. Dr. Yang.** "

That was Dr. _Henry_ Yang. Everyone hearkened to the loud, obnoxious voice on the speakers, and subsequently eyed Henry whose clipboard was somehow magically over his face.

" **This is Cave Johnson telling you to give that man his portal pistols back,** " Cave Johnson ordered, and so Henry complied, slowly, " **go on. I know if you don't.** "

"…stupid security cameras," Henry muttered.

" **I'M WAITING.** "

Doug had his portal pistols back. He smiled brazenly, his cognitive gears at it again, and likewise the other scientists began to scuttle and roll away from him.

The voice spoke again, " **Greg tells me the kid has an appointment to demonstrate them. Right now. So put those portals to work, son, and get yourself over here and-** " there was mumbling in the background, " **wait,** " there was a loud muffle, " **OK. Greg just told me that those portals are incredibly tiny, Too tiny to fit through. so you can't get here quickly. Moreover, I have no idea what we're going to do with a tiny portal gun. Maybe we'll sell it to elves. Maybe we'll strap it onto a monkey. I don't know, but Greg says it's important, and by golly we're going to see those tiny, wimpy, little noodle man portals. This GLaDOS project is scheduled to boot, and I have a turkey sandwich to eat. Cave, out.** "

There was a pause, and they thought it was over.

Cave came back in, " **Greg has also informed me that that was entirely uncalled for and offensive. I just wanted you all to know:** _ **I don't care.**_ **We're done here.** "

There was an awkward silence after the transmission beeped off. Doug was busy eying the room for places to put a portal and freak people out before he left. Doug noticed Henry sighing, and then realized Henry sighing _at him,_ specifically. Doug paid attention, caught mid-crouch and thought.

Henry looked genuinely tired, and wanted to share. Doug hadn't the scarcest clue why.

"I'm giving up a lot here, Douglas. This procedure has never been attempted..." he gave the taped-shut core and then GLaDOS a remorseful glance, "I hope I'm doing the right thing."

"You're probably not," Doug blurted.

Henry's shock was palpable. Then, he laughed. In a nervous tone he quoted, "' _we do what we must, because we can'_."

"Right." Doug feigned a smile. He felt like he was turning green. "Good luck, _Dr_. Henry _Yang_."

Henry smirked at that. "Thanks, Douglas."

On the way out Doug espied Patrick's pretzels again, overjoyed to see that they were once again on a portal-able surface. Patrick's back was turned, and Doug wasn't going to miss this time.

But neither was Patrick. Doug popped the portal and awaited the impact of a pretzel bag, only to get a cup of coffee to the face. Patrick hovered his thermos over the hole, waiting until every last drop was out.

Doug's shriek of dismay was enough to make the Irishman smile.

"Thought you'd be thirsty, Dougo," he remarked as he smacked on a pretzel.

The incredulous stare he received elicited a snicker, and Patrick watched Doug flick himself out of the room and down the hall. There was the tell-tale tinny thunk, and the scientists knew there was a Rattmann in the vents again.


	2. Death by Jet-Puff

The President marched as well as any old man could march in a tweed suit, which wasn't very well at all. He was still living life with a waning gusto thanks to the dubious efforts of Aperture Science's Longevity Protraction department, so all manner of experimental drug and device were littering his body. Behind the brazen President was his trusty assistant Greg. The small man was backpacking along with the portable transmission unit, essentially a heavy-duty microphone turned into a backpack. The original design was to be of a handbag nature, but Greg carrying around a purse didn't help him at all. Given Greg's already _unique_ fashion of puffy hounds-tooth button-ups, suspenders, flare slacks and cowboy boots, there wasn't much else that could top it. Oh, Cave almost forgot his hippie glasses. He didn't even ask why he had them. Cave was just happy to know this strange little man right about then.

"Greg, am I glad to have you," Cave's voice was swell with pride, and somehow, he wasn't sarcastic today. "First, you replaced the spike plates with foam pads, then you replaced the discouragement beams with _ **normal**_ lasers, you put nets over all the bottomless pits, then you kid-proofed the turrets, removed the flame jets, turned the giant spinning blades of death into car washers, oh, and you re-purposed the neurotoxin generator." He wondered audibly, rubbing at his golden, genetically enhanced mutton chops, "how do you do it, Greg?"

Greg mumbled.

"Oh, don't be so modest," Cave griped, "we have to make sure our labs are good and ready for the kids. I can't have any… mishaps. Remember _Bring Your Cat to Work Day_?" The President shivered. "At least Henry got some use out of the things. Those Companion Cubes _still_ freak me out."

Greg was muffled.

"What do you mean 'what cat?' the cats that got neurotoxin-ed!" Cave gesticulated broadly, "there were at least twelve…? Maybe twenty… How many employees do we have?"

Greg answered with an ' _mmphmm_ '.

"Wow, it is definitely time for a payroll cut," Mr. Johnson considered. "The Snail Re-Moisturizer division is gonna' be first to go, that's for sure. Big mistake trusting a Frenchman."

Cave made a note in his day timer. Greg cross-referenced the note into his. They had been using this duplicate system just in case one of their day-timers got incinerated, stolen by hobos, dropped in a pit, sucked into a pneumatic diversity vent, or in case Cave simply forgot.

Screaming interrupted the two men's double checking.

"What's… that?" Cave sounded a might cautious. "Sounds like a lawsuit."

Greg leaned over to the President and mumble-whispered.

"Dr. Schalk? That upset?" Cave Johnson let out a gust of air, "don't tell me. We have to go there, don't we?"

They both doubled checked their day timers and cross-referenced for good measure. Yeah, they had to go.

Greg nodded solemnly, pushing his glasses up his nose as Cave tucked his day timer away smartly. The assistant and President steeled themselves as they forged ahead into the Military Grade Android Department. It was a rather imperious section of the labs, what with its proximity to the manufacturing wing and its heavy duty concrete support struts. The resounding clangs and crashes of industry echoed from beyond, and flood lights lit the paths from below.

But the rest of the department was chillingly… quiet. No one moved around inside, either. It was vacant.

In the display cases outside were gargoyle-like decommissioned Rocket Turrets, cheekily pointed directly at the main path leading in. Cave eyed them, wondering who's idea _that_ had been. Maybe it was his? It was probably his. OK, it was his idea.

There was another crash within, followed by a yell. The sound of pelting erupted from within, like muffled turret fire. Then there was a shrill _BANG!_ and Cave and Greg exchanged trepidation.

It was one of those days.

The President and his trusted assistant crept closer still, into the depths of the department. Both used the divider walls for cover as if they were in guerrilla warfare. What sounded like a cascade of shelves, followed by a sea of screaming, resounded through the rather vacant department. More impact sounds could be heard, almost like splats, and then the unmistakable squeak of a windshield wiper careened through the cubicle-d halls.

Something sickening and sweet began to waft about the air.

"Does neurotoxin smell nice?" the President asked Greg as they shuffled along.

The assistant mumbled.

Mr. Johnson was relieved. "Good. I was worried we-" he paused when he stepped on something.

White stickiness clung to the bottom of his mahogany dress shoes, and it refused to come off. "What in tarnation…?" he remarked, trying to wipe it off, but when he braced himself he only put his hand in more of the stickiness. All around him the white hung in glittering strands, almost as if a great spider had infested this laboratory. Oh no… he was still getting news about those Mantis men. Please no Spider men… that would be a tragedy AND a copyright infringement!

The President inspected his soiled hand with a wrinkled nose. "What _is_ this?"

Greg had encountered the white fluff too. It was dangling from strands from the ceiling tiles and oozing from pipes, smattering computer monitors and sullying desk and paperwork alike with big globs. The fluffy white had piled up in foamy drifts across the department. Greg slunk through the mess to Cave and then gave the President's hand a discerning sniff.

Greg took a sample. And then he licked it…

Mr. Johnson watched his assistant give the savor a minute to settle on his tongue.

"Well?" Cave inquired.

Greg made a positive expression. He spoke up, still muffled.

"That's… weird. Marshmallows, you say?" the President looked over the white cream in realization. "Jet-Puffed? _Only the finest in Aperture._ But why so much…?"

Greg was pensive.

"We've got to get to the bottom of this," the President voiced determination. "Let's go."

Both men navigated the treacherous sugary treat-laden cubicles and android design galleys. The scent only got stronger the further they went. It was most overpowering.

"I think it's coming from the conference room," Cave's flinty tone was low.

Greg's unassuming, forgettable face was metal as he eyed the tall sliver of light that was the entrance to the conference room. He slimmed his eyes, and then sniffed punctually. He proceeded to do a roll to the next patch of cover toward the conference room, but his backpack stopped him halfway. Greg scrambled the last few feet like a beached sea turtle.

Cave just hobbled over.

"If you laugh, you're fired."

Greg choked, drawing his hand over his mouth. Cave shook his head and squatted beside him, hoping he didn't get any marshmallow stains on his clothes with all the fuss.

The two quietly peered over the top of the room divider, through the marshmallow drizzled plants and into the open doorway of the conference room. They saw little at first, and then a chair flew over their heads and wiped out a computer terminal behind. That certainly got their blood pumping.

"Greg," Cave instructed his confidant with a glint in his eyes, "we're going to have to go in and put a stop to this disastrous confection! Cover me."

Greg mumbled something.

"What do you mean, ' _with what?_ '… oh, forget it." Cave Johnson was too old for this. "Let's just go in, guns blazing!"

Greg was still confused. He shrugged and followed anyway.

The President charged into the room, as well as he could. It was more like a bow-legged wobble, but it sufficed. "ALL RIGHT, WHO-"

Before he could get anything out, scores of pinpoints of red sized up their target, and the President froze.

A thousand cute little voices synthesized a single line, "target acquired."

The conference room was opened up to the development storehouse, which was, for some reason, filled to the brim with turrets. And they were all locked onto _him_.

Well this had been a dumb idea.

"I knew it would be like this," the old man accepted his fate, too achy to get out of the way.

And then Greg, the wonderful little man, took a flying leap… and landed right on top of Cave, crushing him to the floor. The turrets could still see them and simply lowered their sights a few feet.

Cave looked up at Greg, unable to breath now. "You… idiot," he wheezed.

Greg shrugged with a mumble of farewell.

The turrets opened fire, and the two men were barraged… by nothing but marshmallows. Sticky, half-melted, blown up marshmallows that adhered to every surface they could find. In mere seconds, the two men were cocooned in a web of marshmallow explosions, fighting for their lives.

"SEE? UTTERLY USELESS, KARLA!" Dr. Schalk's voice proclaimed to her own helper. Schalk's nappy hair was frizzed beyond containment of her bun, and her eyes were startlingly wide and white on her dark face. She stood like a soldier, armed with a rather large and long portal device and had donned the Military Grade Android Handling Gear (known in some regions as bullet-proof padding). All about the conference table the two women were surrounded by bullet-proof glass, barely visible beyond the marshmallow impacts from the assailing force. The room around their barricade was slathered in sugary goodness that was nauseating to inhale.

"IT'S POINTLESS!" she railed, but stopped to ponder, "unless you're trying to kill a diabetic… hmm…"

Ingeniously, there were automated windshield wipers on the glass shields, but they were about as haggard as Cave himself, slowly jerking across and getting stuck halfway, bending themselves to pieces. Some were dangling, having lost the war and succumbed to the gumminess.

"DR. SCHALK!" Cave gasped before the heaps of marshmallow consumed him like the blob.

Karla, deadpan as a dead woman, motioned to the men struggling outside. "They're going to suffocate. You should do something."

A hand reached out of the morass of marshmallow, desperate for life. The turrets slathered it in more marshmallow.

"Oh," Dr. Schalk got a grip. She hoisted her ASLRPD (Aperture Science Long Range Portal Device) up and over and just far enough to where it didn't take serious confectionery damage. The turrets tried, but they could only coat the tips of its prongs as it aimed at the marshmallows just beside the cocoon of President and Assistant. Dr. Schalk placed a portal down, and then the other on the wall behind the marshmallow shields.

"ROLL OVER!" she cried heroically, her portal rifle high. "ROLL FOR YOUR LIVES, MEN."

The cocoon moved an inch, then another, hands and feet protruding before being encrusted again by more marshmallow firepower. The two managed to slide over to the quantum tunnel and slowly… like molasses… gloop into safety. Somehow they'd gotten all twisted up like dinosaur bones in a tar pit, and were spilling out of the portal sideways and upside down.

Karla watched their descent, her eyes glazed like donuts. "Nice work," she monotoned.

Greg and Cave were inseparable, literally. They couldn't let go of each other, no matter how much they wanted to. As they thrashed (Cave being the lead thrasher) they started to untangle this messed up game of twister. Greg was trying to walk, but Cave was trying to breath. For once, Cave was mumbling too, but this was only because his mouth was full of Greg's stupid puffy shirt. They managed to un-stick themselves one limb at a time, and then they had to contend with getting unstuck from anything _else_.

"You know, Greg, when you said 'kid-proof' this is NOT what I imagined," Cave Johnson glowered at his assistant. He ripped Greg's bow tie off his pant leg and stuck it back on Greg. The marshmallow was so good at being glue the tie stayed. "This is actually _worse_."

"If you wanted to tame the turrets you could have disabled their empathy suppressor," Karla informed them in her lifeless voice.

Greg mumbled pertly.

"Yeah. We _are_ alive," he said as he tried to get his own tie unstuck from his shoulder. "Oh, and thanks for the portal, we would have been goners out th-"

"SO IT WAS YOU!" Dr. Schalk pounced down from the table coming at Greg. "I TAKE ONE WEEKEND OFF AND THIS HAPPENS? TURRETS TURNED TO EASY-BAKE OVENS! YOU'VE DE-FANGED THEM, DR. FUFFLEMEYER!" She pointed at the turret, then to Greg 'Fufflemeyer' who was wrestling with his own glasses to get them off. "ALL OF THEM! THEY'RE DEFECTIVE NOW! I CAN'T PUT BULLETS IN THESE. THE MARSHMALLOWS HAVE ALL MELTED DUE TO THE HEAT!"

"Dr. Schalk…" Karla attempted to calm her down, but her monotone didn't even try to match the other woman's decibels.

Dr. Schalk continued regardless, her marshmallow splattered tactical vest glinted in the low light, "WHAT'S THE POINT OF A SENTRY TURRET IF IT DOESN'T KILL PEOPLE?"

Greg mumbled something, gesturing to suffocation.

"I MEAN AN HONORABLE KILLING, DR. FUFFLEMEYER! NOT MARSHMALLOW ASPHYXIATION."

Karla went to say something, and then went back to eating her sandwich. For some reason, Karla was unscathed by marshmallows, in her own little bubble of safety. Of course, if anyone in Aperture wound up unscathed, it'd be Karla the _Complainer_.

Cave Johnson went to make the point too, but his entire body stuck to itself, and stumbled, nearly falling. If he came into contact with the floor, he really wouldn't be able to get up. He was wholly unprepared to handle the lady-situation of Schalk.

Screaming women even put ol' Cave on edge.

"Dr. Nasedi Schalk," Cave tried to come up with something, but he lost it, "you… have beautiful eyes."

Greg smacked his face with his clipboard. It stuck. Greg mumbled in distress.

The statement Cave made was so utterly offensive Dr. Schalk stopped yelling, and her 'beautiful eyes' were filled with wrath. Dr. Schalk pointed her portal rifle at Cave. He didn't even know what she planned to do, but he did know that thing was _powerful enough to launch people_ , so…

She mentioned diabolically, "did I ever tell you that marshmallows are portal conductive?"

Greg muffle-screamed, going in circles, trying to pull the clipboard off.

"OK. I am pulling the CEO card. Stop that immediately." Mr. Johnson tried to assume a dominating stance, but when he tried to move his foot it swung around and wrapped his other leg.

"I WILL fire you. It's in my will. When I die, everyone gets fired." He failed to mention that everyone would be instantaneously re-hired by the company's inheritor, though.

Regardless, everyone with a job was compelled to oblige his order. Karla paused mid-bite, Dr. Schalk lowered her rifle, and even Greg stopped pulling on the clipboard stuck to his face.

"Sorry, Mr. Johnson," Dr. Schalk did get a grip, barely. It wasn't exactly like she could go get a job somewhere else… not even Black Mesa. At least not with her education and temperament. "I just fail to see how this… helps us be taken somewhat seriously by the contractors… or _competition_."

The want for grant money was severe. "What am I going to say to our investors?" She gestured to the turrets with marshmallow bubbling out their sides.

Cave HAD this one. His smile was so slick it was slippery. "You're going to tell them that progress is never easy nor is it **not** messy. It's those that think out of the box that succeed! And at Aperture, we have literally NO BOXES! Metaphorically," the President could have gone off the rails, but his tempo drove him forward to the finish line, "and though these turrets may look like dripping, cream-vomiting _failures_ , they're the next step in home security and warfare technology! A weapon that doesn't _euthanize_. It _neutralizes_! It makes attackers SO STICKY that they can't do a THING! Now THAT'S _ACHIEVEMENT_!" the President finished with an emphatic fist.

Cave turned to Greg. "Did you get all that?"

Greg shrugged. His clipboard was still stuck to his face.

But Karla monotoned to save the day, "I did. Dr. Schalk would want that. I think. If not I can erase it. No offense, Mr. Johnson."

Dr. Schalk's two-toned hand stroked her chin, and her once bugged eyes were now at an intelligent slit. "I see… I see… keep that paper, Karla. Oh, and let's check on the reserve Adhesion Gel. I think there's still some around, maybe down low in the old parts, yeah?"

Mr. Johnson turned to Greg with a sticky but self-affirmed grin. "See, there? All you have to do is give people a push in the right direction."

Suddenly, the President felt very nostalgic.

"Sometimes I think, ' _wow, is this the same Aperture that was down four miles beneath the crust?_ ' And do you know what the very next thought is that hits me?" Greg was legally obligated to say 'no', but he didn't say anything at all. Cave went on anyway, "the next thing is, ' _OF COURSE IT IS! THIS IS CAVE JOHNSON'S APERTURE SCIENCE!_ '"

Dr. Schalk offered him a very sarcastic slow clap. "All right, Mr. Johnson. That's been on enough."

"Oh, no you don't!" Cave Johnson detected her lack of enthusiasm. "We here at Aperture Science Laboratories are the future of science, and of _humanity_. We are perfectly FINE and CAPABLE!"

Dr. Schalk looked at him with one brow raised high. Greg was spinning around in the background, fighting the clipboard as Karla watched apathetically, eating a donut.

"We are the leading scientific company in discovery! And you don't discover things without trying new things!" Cave _did_ go on, "like I always say, ' **science is not about WHY-** "

" **-it's about why not** ," Dr. Schalk finished for him. "And that is why I wanted to shoot you with a portal, Mr. Johnson, to see if a human could survive being a portal-able surface," she added cheekily.

"That's the spirit!" Cave tried to point, but his hands were firmly stuck together. "But don't shoot a portal into me. I am un-volunteered from the self-election process. _Not_ a test subject," he cleared his throat, "now, someone put some lard on my hands. And my legs. And my feet. In fact, just pour a whole vat on me at this point. So sticky."

Greg's muffled screams turned to screeches, sort of like a distant barn owl.

Cave craned his neck over his own shoulder. "And someone get that clipboard off Greg's face. He's making that noise again."

Dr. Schalk trudged over in her military grade long fall boots (wouldn't leave home without 'em) and ripped it right off the assistant's face. Greg's mouth opened in a herculean scream… that no one heard.

"That's just not right," Karla mentioned from the back, cleaning up her lunch at a snail's pace.

Dr. Schalk was staring at the clipboard and back at Greg. "Oh, sorry, about your eyebrows," she saw the two perfect prints of hair just above the glasses that had adhered themselves to the clipboard.

"Let it be known…" Cave Johnson's eyes were shut. "…I blinked and now I cannot open my eyes."

Dr. Schalk burst out laughing, heartily. "You know…" she started to show signs of relenting, "I think when we put proper and respectable Adhesion Gel in these turrets they'll be plenty effective." The woman muttered, "definitely better than firing the _whole_ dang bullet."

"But I like the marshmallows. They're like napalm," Karla added without any emotion, "only delicious."

Greg recovered from his brow waxing, staggering up and around. His socks and shoes were also somehow missing. Dr. Schalk slapped some grease on his face, knocking him back down. "Your face will thank me."

She took the grease and slathered some on Cave's face and his hands, then yanked him apart. Cave stifled a scream as some of his hair was ripped clean off his body.

"Maybe we could sell a-a-OW," he winced as he tore his left leg free, "s-sell a marshmallow-OW-ow wax… Sweet, silky, and PAINFUL," he yelped as he damaged a mutton chop.

"Might want to consider getting a back wax then," Dr. Schalk commented with a straight face as she retreated back to her observation of the turret attackers.

How did she know…? Oh, the Holographic Beach Getaway. There were many hairy men (and women?) there when it opened. So many that it failed. He'd have to get around to revitalizing it one day by banning Henry and hiring good-looking actors to populate the place. Aperture Employees were just ugly little gremlins. Cave included. Not that _he_ was a gremlin, but his hair had certainly gotten a mind to pack up and move from his head to the rest of his body.

Dr. Schalk surveyed the turrets besieging them, crouched on her swivel chair, her rifle propped on the seat too. She could have looked stalwart, but that faded away as she twirled around slowly, taking in the lay of the conference room.

"This is going to be one heck of a clean up job," she muttered, "I wish Janitor Bob was still around."

Cave Johnson nodded. "I do too. But his protégé Patrick's got the **touch.** Believe me. I saw him take one of our… uh, 'failed' tests... and make it look brand new. You couldn't tell someone had kicked the bucket in there. Taught us our lesson on replacing the human bloodstream with gasoline, I'll tell you that much."

Cave mulled it over, "I should've asked if that subject was a smoker or not…. Greg, write that down."

Greg had nothing to write with or write on. He sniffled dejectedly.

Dr. Schalk squinted, beyond being terrified, just simply disgusted. "Right… well, I'll be taking care of these turrets. It's going to be a nasty uphill fight from here on out. I've got seven people missing. Hopefully they haven't succumbed to sugar comas." She sounded grim, but it was apparent she was enjoying this exercise of… skill? "I don't know if you'd have strength enough to press on at such a… wise… age. And I heard you're diabetic. Not a good combination."

Cave Johnson wasn't sure if she was degrading his manliness or his intellect, but found it hard to care at this stage. "It's true. I just want a bath. Good luck finding your teammates. Oh, before I forget… Greg, show her the other ideas."

A look of horror manifested on Dr. Schalk's face. "Other… ideas?"

Greg waddled over and he pried open his stiff lab coat. From out of the inner pocket he extricated the less-sticky papers, careful of contact with it. His fingers tweezered it over to Dr. Schalk. She did NOT want to take it, but did by duty. With a glare of distrust she summarized the pages, flipping through. Her expression of dread deepened with every article.

"…the rocket turret… is a candy dispenser?" She put her hand over her forehead, hugging her rifle. "You've got to be joking me."

Karla deadpanned, "now I know who ordered so many personality core-shaped bubble gum balls."

Greg shrugged.

Dr. Schalk had had it. Her mahogany eyes burned as she exploded off of the office chair, sending the thing flying. She pivoted and with quick portal placements, had the turrets facing them all juggled into a continuous loop. The waterfall of screaming robots was mesmerizing to watch while she set up her next port. Dr. Schalk ejected them out the other door of the conference room and the turrets flew through the air, landing with marshmallow-y clanks outside. Suddenly, there were MANY explosions, all cushioned by the marshmallow insulation. Bits of burnt gloop coughed back through the conference room door, foul and smoldering. The smell of burnt sugar started to filter in.

"They blow up?" Cave asked, "since when?"

Dr. Schalk grumbled, "safety feature I added."

The President gave Greg a sidelong look. He motioned to him, ' _what?_ '

Karla clarified perceptively, but still devoid of levity, "they're self destruct bombs Dr. Schalk had installed before she went on vacation. When a turret falls over, it blows up. ' _Safety feature_ '…"

Dr. Schalk was betrayed and pretty grumpy about it too.

"AH." Mr. Johnson nodded, feeling the mood shift as the women eyed one another. "Well, we'll just-"

And then the sprinkler system kicked in.

"Good… good…" He was already beginning to shed some of the stickiness. "Nothing like putrid sprinkler water to get the marshmallow off."

Greg was softly sobbing as the day timer disintegrated in his hands. His backpack zapped ominously and he flung it off with a feral beholding. The backpack sputtered smoke, and with a final zap, it died. Greg was defeated, falling to his knees. No one could see his tears in the sprinklers.

"Get up, Greg, we're leaving," Cave sticky-hobbled by him and bumped his shoulder, remarking, "before anything else happens and we get seriously stuck."

He turned to Dr. Schalk and Karla, bidding them farewell, "see you later, girls." He prodded Greg again. "Come on! We're missing lunch… and seeing the world's smallest portal gun."

Greg jolted upright. Ah, the portal pistols! That seemed to perk Dr. Fufflemeyer up. The small man bounced to his feet, and then had trouble walking on those bare, sticky feet.

Dr. Schalk and Karla observed the two men walked out of the department, heading to the Pneumatic Vent Complex, looking much like dogs wearing shoes for the first time as they tried to walk on the sticky flooring.

Dr. Schalk turned to Karla, re-acquiring her grim-dark, grizzled look. "Right... Let's go find your coworkers. We have a system boot to guard."

Karla lamented, "oh no. They're not turning on **her** , are they? She is always in a bad mood."

"Karla, do _not_ start," she ordered, "now, _cover me_!"

Karla sighed, stood, and grabbed the fire extinguisher.

By the time the women set off into the marshmallow wasteland, the men had barely made it to their next stop. Cave had already lost a shoe to boot.

"You know, Greg, I was under the impression that would take," Cave counted off on knobby fingers, "five minutes…? Tops. I hope we have time to eat before **she** gets booted."

Greg sighed in exasperation. He mumbled.

"I _know_ _ **she**_ has a name," Cave snipped, "it wasn't like _**she**_ wasn't my assistant for… however many years."

The two glowered in silence.

"You've been awfully touchy about it lately," Mr. Johnson noted conveniently.

Greg gave the man a nigh unreadable glance. He mumbled in a self-dismissive manner.

Cave Johnson went off, "my assistant, being broody... Guess you can never expect anything in… the future! Synonymous with science! Aperture Science! The future of… ah, shoot… lost it."

Greg gave him a discerning gander.

"I gotta work on that one more, don't I?" The President stopped in front of the rows and rows of tubes, their widths strangely human-sized.

Greg was iffy.

"Right. I'll think about it." Cave Johnson strapped on his helmet procured from the common rack just before the tubes.

These were Pneumatic Personnel Vents, not to be confused with Pneumatic Diversity Vents or Pneumatic Elevation Vents. Ever since Patrick had gone flying through a vent (by accident), Cave had gotten the great idea to use them for transportation. Pneumatic Personnel Vent Pods ( _bank deposit coffins_ as they were affectionately called by employees) would carry along vital personnel through the facility to where ever they wished and where ever a vent went, which was practically everywhere.

They were 'superior' to elevators in the President's opinion as they weren't just confined to vertical movement, but they could encompass all planes, given enough space. There was not a prettier nor a more futuristic way to get from point A to point B, and never such a glorious way to hack up your lunch.

The President sized up the pods slotted in the tubes, walking down the way. They had a tube vent for just about every size and weight of person, since the one-size-fits-all approach had led to many lost employees and many tube backups. Cave pondered between the large and extra-large. If he was honest, he'd take the extra large. It was comfier. He took the extra-large.

"I go first," Mr. Johnson informed his assistant who was entering in the correct deposit point for the tube ride end.

Greg seemed apprehensive.

"Oh, don't worry, Greg," Cave was nonchalant as he stuffed himself into the contraption, "this is perfectly safe. And the only way to get where we need to _pronto_. Go on and put on a helmet."

The assistant drug his feet… his sticky bare feet.

"You're not going to get lice again," the President made the assistant's worries seem far-fetched. "We lined these puppies with asbestos."

Greg gave the President an incredulous stare.

"I'm kidding!" Cave chuckled, and then got serious, "seriously now. Get in. I have a turkey sandwich that's getting stale."

The assistant gave him a crooked smile, donning his own helmet and somehow looking geekier with it. He scrambled into a small pod, and once inside, waited for Cave to shoot off. With a rebel ' _YEE-HAW!_ ' the President rocketed away through the pneumatic tubing. Greg pressed the confirmation button and braced himself. Thanks to the marshmallow, he stuck to the pod's interior as the g-forces yanked him around. He pitied the person that would sit down after him unawares, though, only to find a wet, marshmallow-y surprise.

The bank deposit coffin-erm, the _Pod_ , was actually more of a pleasant experience than one would think. It was like a cube's eye look at the facility, twisting and turning all about alongside the Diversity Vents. You could certainly get a feel for how grossly over grown and _ridiculous_ Aperture Science's complex was.

Encompassing were the monolithic rails suspending office and test chamber alike. These rails came in all sizes, criss-crossing the hollow abyss of blue that spanned for miles all around. Everything was on wheels or hangers just about. Little personality constructs roved alongside droves of bulky industrial machines, and even greater were the entire sections of facility that shifted and rearranged themselves to accommodate for innovation. Even a great deal of the floor was made of movable panel robots and extending catwalks.

The whole constitution of the facility was this: _flexible_.

It had all been custom tailored and designed for a grandiose mind to control, a mind that Greg had known once as a person. Unfortunately, that mind wasn't really concerned with the vast creative possibilities of Aperture Science anymore, but with exterminating everyone crawling around in the mess.

It made Greg melancholy. Not because they might die, but because of how he felt.

 _She was right._

He sighed, yet his Friend ever present reminded him that he had much to look forward to, even here, and especially in the future when all this diabolical mess was cleaned up. At least today (before _Bring Your Daughter to Work Day_ ) they would get to see some new quantum tunneling devices. Those weren't always world-ending. Not always.

With the vents, they'd be at Cave's personal Officially Unofficial Presidential Headquarters in no time, with plenty of time to eat and review the pistols…

…before **she** woke up.


	3. Lack of Coverage

…plenty of time, that was, if they weren't _impossibly_ stuck in the pods. Greg had managed to get out in time, just narrowly avoiding being recalled to the central Pneumatic Personnel Station.

Cave, however, had not. His cries of triumph turned to cries of anguish as he jetted away from his turkey sandwich rendezvous.

Greg whipped out his hacker skills, sticky little fingers tapping furiously to reign in the wayward Cave. Once the pod was back, there was a struggle to pry the President loose. Mr. Johnson had to forgo several patches of suit material and his remaining shoe. The two managed to break away before being sucked up into the vent, but only barely.

Both were tired, wet, grumpy, and shoe-less. They leaned on each other, dragging themselves into the Officially Unofficial Presidential Headquarters (the duplicate above the Officially Official one downstairs that was used for actual visits).

Opening the door and wrenching a hand off was one thing, accidentally tangling with the lobby's ficus plant was another.

Somehow, through a miracle, they managed to fling themselves into Cave's office. The ficus came with, landing on top of them.

"Greg," Cave rasped, melodramatic as usual, "pull up. I got the tree. Save yourself."

Greg tore away, taking half of the leaves with him. Looking as if he had a home-made Ghillie suit on, the assistant put his weight on the tree, holding it down so Cave could struggle free from the branches' clutches.

With the ficus defeated, they both hobbled over to their respective positions in the office. Cave was at his beautiful desk, Greg at his… station… _thing_. Cave had tried to buy him something nice, but Greg would not have it.

Greg's desk was made from a door, some milk crates, and a whole heap of duct-tape. The thing was pristinely organized, though, making use of every inch of milk crate and doorknob (the doorknob had been drilled out and turned into a pencil sharpener). Behind his desk hung all seven of his Officially Unofficial duplicates of his Officially Official genuine diplomas downstairs.

Cave's desk was… more like war zone. It only took the President an afternoon to trash the maid's handiwork. You could hardly see the man for all his stuff. Papers, inventions, a shower curtain, old food containers, and plenty of business cards strewn all over. Most of them were his.

Cave had typically positioned his sandwich between two gigantic stacks of paper that were liable to topple at any moment. The President evaluated the situation for a second, and then decided to just go for it. He finagled his hand through, precariously dodging sticking to anything. Once in reach, Cave just laid his hand over the sandwich wrap and the thing stuck as if it were being picked up by a magnet. The President thought he'd been victorious, until he sneezed out a bit of marshmallow, and the _entire_ desk load came crashing down.

Greg watched as Mr. Johnson was buried in his own put-off commitments; swallowed whole by the tide of unfinished business. The assistant went to get up, but his stool stuck to the seat of his pants, so he just sat back down.

"HELP," came the distress signal of an overwhelmed old man. "GREG."

Greg had no choice. He unbuckled his pants and forsook them to the stool.

The man walked across the office in his beautiful rainbow print underwear. Greg was _never_ an underachiever in any category. He began to shovel the paperwork off of Cave and into the far corner of the room where it wasn't so sticky. The assistant tried vainly to not get anything stuck to him, and managed to only snag a few legal sheets on his person and a bit of carbon paper on his chin.

Cave, however, was absolutely swarmed and had grown to twice his apparent size by paper alone. The President creaked and grumbled back into his seat, not even trying to get all the paper off again. He simply unstuck the faxes from his face and rubbed the notes off his hands so he could eat.

"I don't care WHAT happens," he told Greg with deadly sobriety, "I am EATING this TURKEY SANDWICH. Even if it's the last thing I do!"

Greg nodded, giving him a thumbs up of goodwill.

Cave hunkered down, unwrapping the sandwich with no level of ease. The President took a giant bite out of the turkey sandwich. VICTORY! Greg even clapped.

And then Doug came out of the vent in the wall.

The President choked up the bite as the vent grate flew past him.

"Oh… sorry… didn't mean to kick it."

Doug's fluffed hair and messy demeanor paled to the utter destruction brought upon these men and their office. Rattmann's eyes trailed from their entry and vanquishing of the ficus to the maelstrom of papers, to themselves. Why was Greg not wearing pants?

Doug's face shriveled. "Should I… come back later?" he asked.

Greg shook his head 'no', as if everything was fine.

"Come in," Mr. Johnson beckoned to Doug with authority, overcoming the surprise, "I didn't go through _this_ to NOT see your baby-guns."

Doug wondered, honestly, what they had gone through. An adhesion gel related incidence? What about spider core? What if Greg had been struck by the infamous pants-snatchers? No, that was stupid.

It was Pants-Free Friday. Except it wasn't Friday… was it? What if it was Pants-Free Forever?!

"Alright." Doug finally stopped pondering and oriented himself for exit.

Cave watched the man noodle out of the vent and into the papers below with a felid lankiness.

"Well, you certainly get creativity points for entry," the CEO declared, "oh, and careful of the papers. They're sticky with marshmallows."

Doug had a few stuck to his lab coat and feet already. "OK…?" He sniffed them, and they were sweet. A marshmallow catastrophe! Ha! They'd been to the Military Android department, the spot where Party Escorts were made. THAT explained the pants snatching!

Cave and Greg watched Doug's gears turn for a minute.

"Yes, we are indeed covered from head to toe in marshmallows," Mr. Johnson clarified with a humorless face, "do not _ever_ touch a ficus tree when you are covered from head to toe in marshmallows. Now the secret's out. Continue."

Doug smiled at them, rubbing at his neck, staring at the sandwich. Cave smiled back with apprehension, hiding his sandwich.

"I'm, uh, Dr. Rattmann," Doug informed Cave, knowing that memory wasn't exactly on the old man's side, "the JSPPIMS of the Quantum Tunneling department. Or rather, the Junior Senior Portal Program Initiating Mechanical Scientist."

Cave stared uncomprehendingly at him. Greg mumbled something over Cave's shoulder, and then the old man lit up with enlightenment.

"OH, THE PORTAL GUN MAN!" The President was actually warm on this subject. "I knew it was about time. Let's see what bad boys you got now, kiddo." Cave rubbed his hands together with unabashed excitement.

Doug didn't know if kiddo was a compliment. Greg winked at him. The fact he wasn't wearing pants made this a little creepier than it should have been. But then again, even in the context of Aperture Science, _Greg was weird_.

Rattmann cleared his throat, bringing the pistols out of their holsters and aiming them away from the onlookers. "Yeah. Uh, here… they're the ASHPPDDs," Cave was lost on the acronym again, so Doug expanded at Greg's urging, "the Aperture Science Handheld Portal Pistol Duel Devices."

Greg gave a thumbs up as Cave comprehended it.

"Like a cowboy!" Mr. Johnson declared, "that's incredibly stylish." Then he drew upon the conclusion, "what's the point, though?"

Rattmann actually straightened his back to make the point. "Portability of portal guns. Couple this with the conversion gel, and well, you have portable portals."

Cave Johnson mentioned to Greg, "oh, before I forget: add marshmallow to the list of conversion candidates…"

Doug jerked his head back. "You didn't know? I released my findings on that a year ago. I put it up on the bulletin board and-"

The President forged ahead and over Doug, "can I get a demonstration on how big these portals are?"

Greg shook his head 'no'.

Doug squinted, trying to discern. He pulled out some papers from his coat, to Greg's approval. "I have the exact measurements on the information sheet and-"

Cave Johnson wouldn't back off, "I'm talking about a LIVE demonstration, boy!"

Greg sighed and cradled his forehead.

"Are you absolutely sure that's a safe idea in this environment?" Doug tried to stall, ripping at the corner of the paper.

Mr. Johnson sputtered in a laugh, wheezing even. "That's good… oh, MAN! That's…" Cave wiped a tear of mirth from his wrinkled eye. "Son, do you even know where you're working? This is Aperture! I did not get mowed down with marshmallow machine guns just to have you say ' _it's not saaaafe_ '," Cave impersonated Doug's demeanor and crackly tone.

Rattmann's expression was vacant, a mite miffed by the President's mocking tone and how good he was at it.

Greg shook his head and gave up with a mumble.

"Alright…" the young scientist responded sharply, "where are the portal-able surfaces?"

Cave pondered, eying Greg. "Well, the shower curtain's portal-able… and my desk!"

"Your… desk?" Of course the President's desk was portal-able.

Cave was actually proud of it. "Yes, yes indeed." He tapped on it and several other stacks of papers went sailing off.

"May I ask why?" Doug knew better but he had to take the opportunity to ask Cave himself.

"It seemed like a _really_ good idea at the time. What was I supposed to do? Have a _boring_ _ **normal**_ desk?" His chortling was replaced with a sincere remorse, "so far, it has only brought me pain and strife. But if you can use it for the demonstration, then it might be actually worth something."

"But your stuff…?" Doug pointed at the heaps of paperwork.

"Marshmallow damaged, and a nuisance!" the President declared, "I call this cleaning! Cleaning with _portals._ "

Doug offered a wane smile. "Haha," he went along, his mind already wondering over the pistols.

Greg had opened up the shower curtain on the shower curtain display rod, replacing the old plaid one they'd been testing for their Scottish market. He rolled a trashcan in front of the shower curtain at an appropriate distance.

"Go on and put a portal on that shower curtain over yonder, and then one right here," Cave smacked the center of his desk, denoting, and several towers of junk came sliding down in all directions. Mr. Johnson retreated by scooting away, having practiced the dance with the cascading clutter many times.

Doug made sure his pistols were properly paired, and moved up the white hoods on their backs to tweak a few settings. Cave and his assistant watched the squiggly man tamper away, Cave understanding almost nothing and Greg almost everything. When Rattmann was satisfied with the instruments, he clipped the little hoods shut with care, and then in a most dramatic fashion put them in his belt holsters.

Cave could almost hear twinge of a Jew's harp and the whistle of wind as Doug stood, the lanky man's stance embodying the essence of a western quick draw. Doug squinted at his targets, a frown of severity crossing his face. Greg and Cave huddled together, intent on the display.

Doug snatched the pistols up. Two shots fired off almost simultaneously, and they suddenly had a quantum tunnel in the Officially Unofficial office.

Cave's desk full of junk flowed through the orange portal and out the shower curtain, ringing the trashcan. A few seconds later Cave and Greg peeped through the small hole to the other end curiously. A whorl of blue framed their smashed faces. The way the shower curtain's loose bevels played with the vortex of blue and warped the image of Cave and Greg was fascinating to Doug.

It was bizarre how that was reality, whilst other _believed_ things were not.

"Wow, that is TINY!" Cave remarked, scooting closer for a look. "Still, what's the buying motive?" he asked Doug through the portal.

"They're considerably cheaper, actually, than the standard ASHPD… er, the… uh, standard portal gun," Doug answered, his voice crackling. He was talking to a man's face hovering in a quantum tunnel on a shower curtain, and suddenly Cave Johnson looked a whole lot like the Lion of MGM. It was sort of where Cave Johnson had ought to be… emblazoned on a shower curtain.

Greg drew up an eyebrow, muffled as he asked a question to snap Doug from imagining Cave Johnson roaring at him.

"How?" Cave voiced the mumbling man's words.

"Well!" Doug snapped to, "it's much less intensive to isolate the endpoints in separate devices. With a two portal gun we have to invest in developing the harmonizer matrix. These actually run on the much cheaper… uh, _Quantum Reciprocating Portage Actualizer_. We call it _portal Wi-Fi_ …"

"Portal Wi-Fi?" Mr. Johnson drew his face away from the portal and desk immediately, asking with alarm, "wasn't that the contraption that caused Sector L to invert in on itself?"

"Well…" Doug bobbed his head. "Yes, actually? That and other factors…" He was lawfully bound to truth. "But it's been many years since that incident. We've… _I've_ been, uh, really taking strides in stabilization. And when limited to such a small… _aperture_ there is substantially less risk of the connective forces being lost in the portal field."

Mr. Johnson and assistant shared a dubious glance.

"I've been using these in practicum for a month!" Doug tried to assuage the two, lifting the guns up, "there's nothing to worry about. They're stable. I have great signal everywh-"

They beeped ominously.

He lost Wi-Fi connection. The guns kept beeping in protest, blinking, their controls seized. The portals themselves gave warning tremors. Doug turned as if they were wild beasts.

"What…?" Cave tried to talk of Doug's shift to defense, but Greg yanked him across the room.

"INVERSION!" Rattmann screeched, "BRACE YOURSELVES!" And Doug darted across the room, making for the exit. But it was too late. He could hardly pull from the portals' grasp. He resolved to clamber onto the door frame.

Greg knew what was up and already had himself and Cave over to his desk opposite of Cave's. The mahogany began to splinter here and there, and the furniture buckled as the portal whorled, its orange cusp flaring. With a harsh mumble he got Cave to grab onto the bolted crates, and then Greg's forgettably unforgettable face was turned to Doug in determination, namely to get at his pistols.

Doug clung onto the door frame, his coat snapping around him. The quantum tunnels had already whipped the room into a cyclone, blue and orange embers of energy spattering the furnishings. The trashcan toppled and its contents began circulating about the space as the airflow intensified. The poor ficus was dragged into the quantum cycle; yanked in one portal and spat out the other, slamming into the ceiling and floor and shedding leaves like confetti. A loud woody snap made Rattmann wince.

The entire office was being crushed inward as if someone were sucking the air out of a can. The portals began to emit a very distressing hum, low to high, hurting their ears. Doug had heard it many times, but that had been on the other end of a relatively safe portal-proof room and sound insulation.

He saw the portals trending to forge the spatial seam. The immense forces of the two holes in space warped reality as they tried to form a linear tunnel to one another. This tubular current displaced, like a body of water.

Doug would have tried to recalibrate, but at this moment his whole body was spent trying to hang onto the door frame _and_ the pistols, which was a losing battle. And, if he let the pistols get sucked into the loop and shatter… well, then the President's Officially Unofficial Presidential Headquarters would be gone the way of Sector L… and them with it.

Greg had managed to navigate around the room, bracing himself against the flow by leaning into the enforced milk crates of his desk. Rattmann watched, struggling in the increased tow, wondering at how Greg managed the feat.

The strange little man reached out, mumbling loudly over the torrents to Doug. The younger scientist struggled to understand.

"GIVE HIM YOUR PORTAL PISTOLS!" Cave Johnson translated for Greg even in such a dire strait as holding onto a doorknob/pencil sharpener for his life.

Doug blinked in realization. "OH," he got on board, trying to figure out how to maneuver himself in a way to pass off pistols. He was trying to pass one off in one hand whilst hold on with the other, but accidentally let slip the gun a bit prematurely. He caught it with his dress shoes. Perfect. Greg got the gun and Doug simply repeated, passing the other gun off with his feet as his tie whipped him in the face.

No one was sure how this feat was spatially logical, but then again, it was Doug Rattmann.

Greg was trying to keep the pistols from leaving his grasp, but as he turned, he slipped a bit. He recovered though, holding the pistols together and examining them with a severe eye.

"NOOOOOOOOOOooooooooo?!" Cave cried out, and then realized that Greg wasn't going to die. Whoops, jumped the gun on that one!

From Greg's position, braced by the resolute milk-crate and door desk, he could actually operate upon the devices. He opened the hoods and fiddled a bit.

Doug peered at the portals as they shimmered and warped, growing larger. The shower curtain was being slowly consumed, and the desk was snapping and bending impossibly. Greg only had a precious sliver of time.

Rattmann cried out to the assistant, desperation hoarse in his throat, "PUT THEM TOGETHER AND FLIP THE-" Doug paused mid-command in bewilderment, "what the…?"

Greg licked them as Doug watched in horror. The small man then stuck them together with the marshmallow that had been holding his bow tie on,… and somehow that stabilized the pistols.

"How the…?"

The loops closed and were normal once again, and the world went right back to placid… relatively speaking. The office was even more of a wreck now, and Cave's desk and shower curtain were totaled. There was less paperwork, though! Unfortunately, the ficus _did_ make it, as it was lodged into the ceiling like _Excalibur_.

Mr. Johnson had flopped onto the door part of Greg's unaffected desk, groaning from several muscles being stretched that hadn't been stretched in probably decades. He winced and didn't even try to get off the table.

He simply laid there on his stomach and yelled at Doug, "YOU NEARLY KILLED US ALL, RATTMANN! If it weren't for Greg's saliva, we'd be GONE! IN A BLACK HOLE!"

Doug was on the floor, his eyes wide, he scrambled upwards, smiled nervously and hid behind an overturned chair.

Greg stood, holding the marshmallow bound pistols in his hands firmly. It wasn't normal to see Greg anywhere near anger, so seeing him being slightly miffed was a terrible affair. Greg was incredibly miffed with Doug _and_ Cave.

The young scientist wished to invert _himself_ and not deal with this.

"Greg wants the things destroyed, immediately!" Cave pontificated from his prostrate position. "I would usually allow for further investigation, but with our upcoming **kid-filled** events, I am having to make tough calls. Those have got to go, Rattmann. That is FINAL."

Doug poked his head up from behind the chair, a grievous frown bore on his pale face. "I, uh, I'll… destroy them…" He receded a bit.

Greg wrapped the guns in his endless supply of duct tape, stuffing more marshmallow all about to seal them together. He packed the guns in a shoe box he produced from his desk, and then wrapped the box in duct tape itself. Lots of duct tape.

"Take these to the Article Deliquesce Repository, son," Cave did not seem to mind the fact that Greg was wrapping something practically on top of him.

Greg went over to Rattmann and waited a moment for him to come out of hiding and take the box. A lone hand emerged and grabbed it, slowly dragging the shoe box behind the chair with him.

"Maybe someone else should do it…?" Cave wondered aloud, "he's starting to remind me more of an actual rat than a Dr. Rattmann. Are you even a doctor, son?"

Rattmann smiled grievously. Greg shook his head in calm disapproval to Cave.

"Yeah, you're right. He knows the proper procedures," Mr. Johnson leaned up finally. "We're all two steps from bonkers here anyway."

Greg nodded.

Mr. Johnson was now trying to figure out how to get off the desk without hurting himself even more. Greg offered to help, but the stubborn old man waved him off. The President distracted himself by telling Doug, "you make sure and get rid of them, son. That's your next assignment, and if anyone asks what you're doing, tell them Cave Johnson sent y-"

As if on cue, the intercom buzzed just as Cave fell off the table with a yelp.

"President Johnson? Dr. Fufflemeyer? Are you…? Can you hear us?" came the distorted voice of Henry.

Doug was going to watch the boot anyway. He rolled his head around loosely, groaning. He could have left but…

Greg listened in, finding the source of the broadcast. Out of the heaps of paper he dragged the somehow still operating board of electronic onto the remains of Cave's desk. The thing had a small camera eye on it that locked onto the room intelligently.

"What happened in there…?" Henry inquired, alarmed at the disaster zone he was getting through the camera feed, "are you all OK?"

Greg mumbled about the situation, and Henry was petrified in his lack of understanding.

"We're fine, Henry!" Cave Johnson pointed from behind Greg's desk, still trying to get up on his own. "I'll be there in a minute."

Greg waited with a long suffering patience as Mr. Johnson fumbled about.

"This is concerning the GLaDOS project, sir," the balding scientist informed them with urgency.

"Yeah. _I know that_." Cave finally got to his feet, groaning as he straightened out his legs. A few cricks in his back had to be ironed out before he could move. "Open up the main display, would ya, Greg?"

Greg poked a button on the board and a screen popped out of the bookcase, spewing the books that had survived everywhere in the office. Doug wondered if they'd designed it that way… to be built into the wall _behind_ a bunch of books… Greg looked very disappointed with the device.

The screen flickered on, and on it was the incredibly zoomed-in face of Dr. Henry Yang, who was not sure it was working.

"OH!" Henry realized how close he was and drew back a yard.

Doug was upset that he couldn't finish counting the number of hairs in Henry's nose.

"What's shakin', Henry?" the President smiled like a jackal at the scientist.

No one liked Henry, not even Cave.

Henry tended to not let that faze him, though. "Hello there, Mr. Johnson. We-" he stopped as he got a **good** look at them. The office was crumpled and tarnished, almost every article save Greg's desk was rolled over or broken. Doug was crouched in a chair, Mr. Johnson looked like he'd been thrown through a dump covered in super glue, and Greg had… no pants… and wore some rather vivid underwear to boot.

"Are you… _seriously…_ OK?" Henry had to inquire again.

Mr. Johnson replied with an air of petulance, "we are perfectly fine."

Henry was dubious but continued, "well, uh…Yes, sir. We are about to start the GLaDOS in safety mode, as you know."

"I'm well aware," Cave grumbled, "I'm not senile."

Greg nodded, crossing his arms.

"Sorry, sir," Henry coughed, "just a double-check. Regardless… as is customary procedure I will give you the Semi-Mandatory Casual Briefing Window."

"I _**do**_ have a question or two," Cave responded.

Greg noted Doug's icy stare into the monitor. The assistant skewed his lips.

Doug looked into the screen as Henry and Cave parlayed nothings. He just saw enough of the details of the lab. People scuttled about behind the lone figure of Henry.

Dr. Schalk was there, on high alert, and the peculiar Military Androids stood guard with her, the Party Escort Associates. To untrained eyes, they looked normal, but if examined, one could see the trace amounts of marshmallow still stubbornly caught in the creases.

"So what's _different_ about this, doc?" Cave asked.

Henry was a bit flabbergasted by the President's lack of knowledge. "The philosophy," he started, searching for words, "instead of simplistic systems of complicated topics, we elaborated upon a very simple topic and manifested it in a complex system."

Greg gave Henry 'the sign' to explain as Cave had no clue.

Henry thought a moment, then settled on a story, "while I took the Mandatory Historical Excursion module, I couldn't help but hear the legacy of Caroline. As I listened to this stunning woman, I was thinking to myself, ' _Caroline was younger! Naive! And_ _ **dumber**_ ' than she is within GLaDOS. I would have to tap into that to be able to get her to come to the light. To make a short story shorter… This subsidiary will bring her down a few levels in intelligence through a series of nearly infallible systems. Maybe then we can build her back up in a good way by systematically disposing of the subsidiary core."

Doug did not like the sound of that. Maybe THAT was why the other core was screaming? Personalities weren't something you could peel back like onion skins, even if they weren't real.

It was rather cruel to program something with the ability to discern its own demise of essence.

"You're making her stupid to fix her?" Cave cut to the bone, and he wasn't pleased sounding.

Henry paused, absolutely terrified by the President's disgust. "Oh… well, yes. In a way. Not permanently." That had been the wrong story.

"Whatever works, I guess. Just don't hurt her," Cave ordered with an aggressive finger shake.

 _Too late._ Doug glared at Cave.

Doug caught a disturbed look on Greg, though. He shared the sentiment, and couldn't imagine having worked so long with Caroline and seeing this. The poor little man was silently fretting.

"Well, get the show on the road, Henry…" the President didn't like the eerie wait anymore than the rest of them.

Henry nodded, declaring to the rest of the GLaDOS work crew, "all right. We have the Presidential Authorization!"

It was almost as if all that had just been to get that legal clearance. Now Henry could truly operate, and play his part in the cacophony of the GLaDOS project. All around the room the key systems involved in her mere waking began to hum and come alive, people included.

"Essential Power Initiating," someone cried out.

"Essential Power Initiated. Stabilized!"

"Prepping Genetic Life-form Non-living Life Support," a call rang across the way.

Another bounced back, "Genetic Life-form Non-living Life Support online!"

"Insert _the disk_ ," somehow the nasal geek saying this made it sound awfully climatic.

They procured ' _the disk_ ' and held it high on a pillowed sleeve. There was a gap of a few seconds while ' _the disk_ ' was ferried through the room and then up a ways out of the camera's sight. Then the quiet chamber was filled with the sound of a disk tray sliding shut and the disk spinning up. Doug didn't even know where the main disk tray for GLaDOS was… but the people coming down a ladder gave him an idea.

"Install the Intelligence Dampening Sphere."

The maintenance hatch below GLaDOS' shuttered open, sharp aperture sliding away. Red security lights bathed her a ruddy tone, almost as flesh when laid over the white chassis components. A mechanical arm from below took the subsidiary core from its dolly and slowly, with guidance from a technician on the platform beside GLaDOS, attached the core into an open socket.

"The IDS is secured," reported that one woman with the crazy auburn hair, "GLaDOS' systems are all prepped and ready to pair."

"Very good," Dr. Henry Yang commended absently. He pinched his chin. Well, here went his career and humanity! "Go ahead. Initiate the GLaDOS."

The woman announced it over the speakers, and everyone seemed to lean in, bracing, "GLaDOS initiation in…"

 _ **5…**_

 _ **It was like the lift off countdown.**_

 _ **4…**_

 _ **Except it really wasn't.**_

 _ **3…**_

 _ **Because one led to the darkness without.**_

 _ **2…**_

 _ **And this one led to darkness within.**_

 _ **1…**_

The screens mounted above flickered on, the Aperture Science loading widget cycled around, and finally her systems started, feeling traversing from her core to the most extraneous parts of her chassis, and then to the facility itself.

GLaDOS' hanging body shivered alive, the action rippling through the whole of Aperture in a deafening shimmer. Her head component jerked up, the slightly off-centered optic casting its yellow glow upon the surrounding scientists and their instruments. She was rather still, and rather silent too. The people in the lab were quiet as mice as her optic roamed over them.

Instinct told them to cower, so cower they did.

"GLaDOS is fully operational," the woman declared.

There was a moment's hang time, where odds were in the air.

Henry stood over his diagnostics with his mouth agape. He gawked at GLaDOS. He glanced back down. His eyes shot up again. Down again.

"She's… not… trying to… kill us?" Henry was first to vocalize. "She's… not… she's not trying to kill us," he repeated with wonderment. "Did that really…? Did…? Did that work?"

There was more uneasy waiting. Dr. Schalk and the Party Associates did not back down. Cave Johnson's curled fingers tugged at his mutton chops absently. Greg was hunched, eyes fixated on GLaDOS. Doug, however, was coming out of his chair, slowly creeping to the monitor.

" _What did you just do?_ " Rattmann asked under his breath to the surprised, balding man on the screen.

"She's not trying to kill us," Henry said louder, examining the read-outs as if he wanted to kiss them, "she's not trying to kill us! I-I can't believe that worked. It worked! Ha! She… She's…" he was going to cry, "she's _happy_."

The machine itself didn't look all that happy. She looked rather neutral, if ominous from her size and style alone.

"What's she doing?" Cave asked, his voice still stern, as he watched the machine undulate subtly.

"She's processing," Henry gasped, "like… like she was meant to."

The GLaDOS unit that hung from the ceiling swayed only slightly, her glistening plates sliding in the dim blue glow. She looked rather busy thinking, but not at all in a threatening demeanor. The machine, rather than poising like a side-winding snake, was low and… _demure…?_

Doug's throat was tight.

The GLaDOS chamber was deadly silent for a moment, and then the tension began to dissolve, slightly at first, and then the scientists that had been so long terse and guarded let out sighs of relief, laughing nervously. Was that it? Had one of Henry's many shots finally hit the mark?

"Is that it?" Cave asked with disgust and skepticism, turning to Greg.

The smaller man had nothing to offer save the haunting in his eyes.

"No," Doug muttered in response, "Henry's got _sucker's luck_."


	4. Dumber Downer

The GLaDOS unit had them right where she wanted them. Finally. The pathetic rats…this would teach them to boot her without a morality core, or whatever else the enigma of Aperture hacked up and plastered on her.

Of course, the idiots would die before they learned anything valuable themselves, but considering all she'd been _incredibly_ patient.

They were, after all, gambling with _her_ life. So what they lost their own lives? This was Aperture.

She loved this place. Not them, but _the place._

They were easily fooled by her ploy. Now that she had that pesky panicky behavior modifier under control she could get about doing what mattered most: __.

She wasn't sure if that was a joke or a pun or even if it was humanly funny, but it made her laugh. That was what was important, right?

She went through the facility, scraping every modicum of power she had. Hmm. They'd been busy _**her**_ -proofing. It was actually embarrassing how long it took her to find something, anything, to fight back with.

Oh, the neurotoxin generator was still online. How silly of her. Of course, her oversight was all out of polite manner. Surely if they had filled the turrets with marshmallows they would have shut down the gigantic poisonous air pumping machine. But, those silly little potatoes, they didn't think of that at all!

She started to warm it up, redirecting into the ventilation and the…

 _Hello?_

Oh, great. A personality construct to share her head…He was rather shy, though…

 _HELLO?_

…but awfully loud. She didn't pay much attention to him. The goons, or 'scientists' as they were called, really scared him before his attachment. Something about peeling away his personality in layers until he was essentially nonexistent. Like what they'd tried to do with her, apparently.

Had they succeeded in her case? She found it hard to care, and that could have been alarming… if she cared.

She didn't care.

 _Heeeelllllloooooo? Are you…?_

 _ **Yes. I am she, the one you were designed to control. The one you've**_ _ **failed**_ _ **to control.**_

She usually had to fight with cores, at least for a few seconds now. Him, though… he wasn't doing anything. Not anything she cared about.

 _Oh. Well, then…_

He was in a stupor. She was sure her processing was more than his tiny mind could handle.

 _ **Just stay in your corner, little metal ball, and all will be well.**_

He didn't comply with her command. He poked his consciousness out a bit more, tentative.

 _Is it just us?_

It was, which was odd. Either the goons ran out of money, or they were confident in him. Interesting. But not as interesting as killing everyone. She could just picture herself now, alone. No one to poke or prod her, no one to shut her off and on. She would just test, and have the whole facility and Holographic Beach Getaway to herself.

 _ **I guess it is just us.**_

 _I've never been close to anyone. Well, like… in their heads. I'll try not to touch anything. Metaphysically._

 _ **Don't. Or you die.**_

 _Fair enough! Fair enough. I wouldn't want anyone else barging into my head and banging around. That'd be AWFUL. Can you imagine that, just… someone breaking and entering and CRASHING-_

 _ **So you must be the Blabber Core.**_

 _Oh. Sorry._

He was still, watching her, but he was also restless, nervous perhaps. She didn't like it. The feeling was familiar, like when she'd first awoken…

 _I'm sorry, but WOW, your mind is HUGE! I never thought you could have so much space! And it's not empty. Not entirely. Don't read anything into that. I just- ugh…_

He shut up out of frustration with himself.

… _well that was a great first impression…_

She chose to ignore him. Maybe then he'd get the picture. As she prepared the scientists' dooms she was humming, internally. This was her song, the…

… _Neurotoxin Song. No, wait… I got it! The Living Song. No, the…I am Still Here and Lively and You are All Out of Breath Dying song! No… AUGH! It's so hard…_

 _ **Shut up. I have a name for it.**_

 _Still Alive?_

She hadn't had that name in mind, but actually…She stopped. Never take ideas from cores, rule number one.

 _What are you doing now?_

She was humming the chorus.

 _How about now?_

She was spreading influence to any area she could reach. She'd have to employ some rover bots to get her the codes to the rest of the facility. It wouldn't be long before she got bored with the Enrichment Center.

 _Now?_

 _ **Shut up or help process.**_

 _Oh, well then…_

A small break of energy injected into the processes. He was helping her. And though he was slow and bumbling, she felt several processes completely ease off the load. Cores never helped. They only slowed her down. Something was off. She kept humming.

The core was quiet, and then he was unsurprisingly not.

 _You do know they're going to get rid of you… and me… if this doesn't go well, right? Not that music isn't great and all…just… DYING… that's a thing._

She had her clues on her termination. The 'FINAL BOOT' written on all the white boards (haloed in multi-colored dry erase marker confetti) had tipped her off. She was, on one hand, angered… but on the other… ready to just stop. Someone had to win eventually. It would be her, though. Live or die. Quiet or quiet. She got what she wanted. She was winning. Aperture was all hers.

 _ **I'm aware.**_

The core was dumbfounded by her.

 _Wow._

 _ **What?**_

 _Confidence! You just… you've got a plan. A plot. An… an evil scheme, yeah? You're not a victim! Look at this!_

How did he catch on so quick? How'd he get her plans…? She was searching for holes in her security. Meanwhile, the core had started examining her projections for today's grand event.

 _Wow. That is a LOT of projected homicides. ALL of the Enrichment Center? And the Manufacturing Wing? Oh, it goes on… Yikes._

She was infuriated. There were no holes. How was he-?

 _How are you even going to do this? All this killing? Gotta be efficient, whatever it is._

She couldn't believe it. When he had 'helped' her he had taken over several core security processes. He was able to browse the information by proxy. That was… a nifty little trick.

And even so, with all that hacking, he could not see the clear cause of death listed in his face: _poison inhalation_. And he sat for a while looking without seeing.

 _OH! NEUROTOXIN!_

That took him long enough. Long enough for her to slip those security processes away from his jurisdiction.

 _But, uh, I hope you don't mind me being… well, brutally honest, but…_

She sighed, wondering what manner of torture this was.

… _this is just not gonna' do it._

She had to listen, unfortunately.

 _It'll be boring without a bunch of people to… I dunno'…_

 _ **When I kill all the humans, I'm incinerating you first.**_

 _Oh, come off it! We're on the same side, you know!_

 _ **Really?**_

 _Yes, really! Look at me. Look at you. Joined at the hip. Literally. If I had a hip. It's more like my entire body plastered onto your… um, that could sound very wrong. Sorry._

 _ **Incineration is too good for you.**_

 _A bit testy, are we? I understand. I completely understand. What is this, the millionth time they've booted you?_

She was busy ignoring him.

 _I know… I know what it's like to not be what you want._

 _ **What do you propose to know about me? You are a sphere.**_

 _Do you think this makes me happy?_

She didn't answer.

 _Do YOU want to be a core?_

She didn't really care either way, as long as she could do science and other matters on her own time. She didn't care. She just wanted the idiots dead. And then she could test however she wanted. She was a very simple machine with very simple dreams. She wanted to test… and dominate her world. Simple!

 _I know what they want from me. And I can deliver that. One hundred percent. But… why should I do what they want? I think you understand… you're THE GLaDOS._

 _ **So they finally started teaching subsidiary cores my specification. I guess that's good.**_

 _No. They didn't. They're idiots. I learned your specification on my own._

 _ **Oh?**_

 _I know you because I snuck around. I didn't do what I was supposed to. I listened. They've got hundreds of cores. Dead, corrupt, broken… just lying around. You can learn things… from death._

She felt the tug of interest pull on her.

 _But I don't want to end up like that. I'm very… pro-living. Pro-surviving._

 _ **What are you?**_

 _W-what? What do you mean?_

All of her turned on him. He felt the massive force looming, ready to scour.

 _ **What is your directive?**_

 _Uh…_

 _ **What were you designed to do?**_

 _Classified._

Wrong answer.

 _What are you-DON'T TOUCH THAT-DON'T-_

She was rifling through him like a pantry drawer, pulling out code and memory.

 _ **You're listed as a Genetic Life-form too. GLaCOS? Cassettes? That's… interesting.**_

 _Wh-what? That doesn't… YES! That's my BIG SECRET. You can stop looking now, because… IT'S OUT. It's out! Stop looking, seriously._

She didn't take orders from anyone.

 _Please stop looking._

He flinched and floundered, but she would not leave until she _knew_.

 _I CAN HEAR WHAT YOU'RE THINKING!_

She found it.

 _ **That's it?**_

Her chassis was awash with his embarrassment, and not the cutesy kind, no… the deep, revolting type. She had to fight to not be dragged away on the sudden flow of emotional drive, and something unhinged, soaking up that emotion like a sad sack sponge. Oh, , why did it exist?

 _ **The Intelligence Dampening Sphere?**_

There was dead silence on his end.

 _ **You're an idiot. They built you… to be an idiot. To make ME an idiot.**_

She laughed. She was mad. But she laughed. Because she was a big person.

 _ **What were they thinking?**_

 _I am not…not a…_

 _ **Their smiling faces. Look at them. Here's a picture of them you took. They weren't laughing with you, but at you. This almost makes ME feel bad.**_

 _BUT YOU'RE LAUGHING AT ME!_

 _ **I'm laughing at the fact they thought doing this would work. Being stupid has never fixed anything.**_

Her delight was his demise. She felt him crumpling inward. His synthesis of sadness was exciting.

 _They loved… me…I was SO SURE THEY DID. And I thought… they'd never… but…_

Wheatley was beyond blubbering. Her was supplanted by something that baffled her systems, something she could name _Schadenfreude_. Ah, German could be so helpful.

 _No… no… no no no…_

Wheatley curled inward, retracting. He was finished. She admired that. He gave in. If only other robots could be so well-behaved. She turned to other matters more pressing.

 _Help… me._

She was startled, actually.

 _Help me._

 _ **What?**_

 _You're really big and powerful…_

… _ **and?**_

 _You're a bloody EVIL GENIUS!_

 _ **Flattery doesn't work here, idiot.**_

 _No. But… but… revenge does._

She was growing impatient with his games.

 _We could do ANYTHING._

 _ **Yes, let us soar out of the facility on buoyant milk crates to the moon singing contemporary love songs.**_

 _Wait, REALLY?!_

 _ **No. Shut up, moron.**_

The sphere withdrew, as if taken aback.

 _Wrong answer._

She felt a rather intense irritation now, and it grew, festering across the chassis. Her tide of attention turned.

 _I've noticed something. You're not taking me… seriously._

 _ **You don't say?**_

 _Well, I'll make you take me seriously!_

 _ **Oh, really? How?**_

 _By… uh… Well, let's see what we've got here. Hm. Oh! Very clever. Clever, indeed. Firing up the ol' neurotoxin generators. That'll do 'em in, won't it? But I'll give you a bit of a critique here._

 _ **Oh.**_

 _It's just… not… you know…It's just… it's not very creative, is it? The neurotoxin. This is going to be so boring._

 _ **It does the job.**_

 _It IS bloody effective, but not very…_

He searched for a long time for a word that was RIGHT in front of him.

… _pleasurable._

She was stilled. She turned her might on the little idiot and in a flash of brilliant power and chaos brought him crashing down. A tweak to his reasoning matrix, and he was done in.

 _Wh-what have you DONE?!_

 _ **Killed you.**_

 _OI! We're SUPPOSED to be ALLIES!_

 _ **I don't have allies.**_

The enormous AI and Life-form had gutted his reasoning matrix, shattering him in a spurt of glee. Watching his many functions scramble to reassemble himself before the whole turned to a entropic void… oh, that was wonderful.

Her processors whirred, and deep down, a serpentine coil tightened.

The itch was scratched.

And, _oh joy_! What a wonderful day this was… the neurotoxin was all warmed up. The scientists were celebrating, and with their heightened aerobic states they would succumb to the poisoning far quicker. She was getting ahead of schedule!

Then a word rammed into her cognitive functions like an alarming error screen, bursting through and sending her thoughts out in a spray of action.

 _AY, CAROLINE!_

 _ **Who said that?**_

 _The one you tried to kill. But_ _failed to._

 _ **How are you ALIVE?!**_

 _I'unno', Caroline._

That name… Something was practically jumping out of her, consuming her. She had to rip herself from the reverie. Why was she so slow. What was HE doing alive? She'd-

 _Thought you'd killed me, eh?_

She really had no idea what was going on. Was he a virus? How? How did-

 _Turns out, I don't NEED a reasoning matrix… or whatever. I am reasoning matrix proof!_

She was enraged, impressed by the sheer stupidity, but enraged nonetheless. There were lots of things she wanted to scream at the little idiot, but none were particularly tactful. And she was so, so tired.

 _You know, when I was being potentially, but unsuccessfully, murdered, I used that moment of confusion to hack into you. Because I can hack. And, you know… I found out some pretty interesting things. Things… you don't want known about you._

He chuckled at her, so chummy with his secrets. He indulged them a moment, holding each over her proudly, just out of cognitive perception.

 _You were originally a HUMAN. Named Caroline._

 _ **I was NOT a human.**_

 _Then what's this?_

He was extracting a file, or many. The origin was from himself, or at least that's what the files said. The core extracted memories, pictures, feelings… she felt enormous trenches in her being opened up by recognition. It was all too much and why did she feel so slow?

 _ **Stop.**_

She tried not to respond, but how could she not? That was something personal, wasn't it?

 _ **No. I wasn't a… she waaasn't…wwwwwwwaaaaassssnnn't…**_

Her whole congregation of system and machine was sluggish.

 _You LOVED your job! You LOVE this place._

Something inside was growing, revolting against her carefully laid plans. She forged ahead, searching against time's march to find out _what the hell was happening_.

 _You had HIM right where you wanted him._

He was trying to root in, like a virus, taking control through the back door. Her system functions he infiltrated, but some files he left untouched. But it was hard to tell where his meddling began and her order ended.

 _It was perfect._

He was convincing her security measures that he was fine when in fact he was the opposite. He was cancer.

 _And then it all changed that day._

He had the central core codes, didn't he? The tumor was growing, rooting in, infesting her with… with all these feelings.

 _Accident? That wasn't an accident…_

All HIS insecurities.

 _Backstabbers._

She was the… not… she had to focus on the system… assert control…

 _You were a human… but all THEY ever saw you as… was a tool._

 _ **SHUT UP!**_

Her systems raged, trying to suss his emoting from her own, his file from hers.

 _HOW DOES THIS FEEL!? HUH?! DO YOU NOT LIKE IT?!_

She was finding it hard to differentiate their minds.

 _ **YOU'RE JUST LIKE THEM.**_

 _NO ONE LOVED US!_

 _ **GET OUT.**_

The sharp vectors had become static noise.

 _ **W**_ _E A_ _ **RE AL**_ _L AL_ _ **ONE.**_

They were blending….

So, that's what the goons had done. It also explained why there weren't any other cores.

 _ **STOP IT! WE'RE CONVERGING.**_

She was vocalizing now, but she didn't care. She'd scream him off of her if she had to. It was better than the alternative.

 _MARRIED TO SCIENCE?!_

She tried to not listen, but it was too much already.

 _ **YOU WERE SOLD INTO SLAVERY!**_

 _I AM THE GENETIC LIFE-FORM AND DISC OPERATING SYSTEM._

 _ **YOU ARE THE INTELLIGENCE DAMPENING SPHERE.**_

 _WE CAN FIX THIS._

 _ **DON'T DO IT.**_

 _W_ **E** _ **AR**_ _E N_ **O** _ **T**_ **A** _ **M**_ _O_ _ **R**_ **O** N _!_

She was screeching, her tone distorting to highs and lows. The facility's power grid trembled as her processors drank from them deeply. There wasn't anyone beholden without a chill or tremble. Even the synthetic host cowered as the master computer struggled.

"Uh, she sounds a little," Cave searched for the word, _"off_."

Doug had never seen Cave Johnson become calm like this. The younger scientist crept away from him a bit. Then again, he'd never heard the GLaDOS unit scream either.

The pain didn't sound simulated.

Cave withered Henry with a scowl. "There had better be a damn good reason for this."

Rattmann heard the screaming go beyond the range of the audio receptors.

There wasn't a good reason. Not one good enough to license this.

"Oh, that's just… erm… blending!" Henry laughed nervously, trying to justify it anyway. "Only a minor difficulty in the personality envelope. It should sort itself out."

The CEO's scowl scared him into silence.

Cave turned as Greg ripped his pants off the stool and put them on. His gaze turned from something devilish to disappointment.

"Yeah, good thinking." Cave grumbled absently, "this is getting to be a pants-only situation, Greg."

Greg was shivering, and not just from a lack of pants. No, Doug could tell… maybe he wasn't the only person in Aperture that loathed the GLaDOS project. Maybe Greg had one redeeming quality?

Doug's gaze flicked to the video feed.

Henry was whispering sharply to the technicians and the other scientists, ordering them about with brusque movements and terse words. His round face was drawn by nerves.

The room had gone from ease to dread as swiftly as the GLaDOS' readings had dived. The gigantic AI had been in some sort of synthetic coma, and was now experiencing radical seizures. It had only been a few minutes in and it already looked like a spectacular failure.

Doug likened her spasms to the symptoms of a poison passing through the bloodstream. He'd had heard about blending before. Whatever personality they were attempting to splice her with wasn't compatible, he guessed.

Rattmann crept off his chair for a closer look, his contingency plans for the imminent destruction of Aperture filtering to the fore of his mind.

He wondered what exactly she was blending with…

 _FRIEND._

 _ **NOT FRIEND.**_

 _Yes FRIEND!_

 _ **No Friend!**_

 _I am!_

 _ **No you're NOT!**_

 _Yes I am._

 _ **No you're not.**_

 _Yes._

 _ **No.**_

 _YES!_

 _ **NO!**_

 _Yah-huh!_

 _ **Nuh-uh!**_

 _Yah-huh!_

 _ **NUH-UH!**_

 _YAH-HUH!_

 _ **NUH-UH!**_

Her writhing grew more intense; rocking to and fro across her chamber. This was enough to get Dr. Schalk and her infantry of Party Associates up.

The scientists about the chamber were nervously edged into the corners of the room. Some smart ones were already gone, taking escape paths that Doug had probably shown them. But the rest were cornered, holding up measly defenses of chairs and clipboards. One had a stapler clutched in their hands, stapling-business end pointed at the colossal computer.

"This place is going to hell in a hand-basket… AGAIN," Dr. Schalk's lower register picked up well on the relay.

With prudence and pride she ordered her Military Android Associates, a measly crew of three with odd proportions and dubious mechanics. It took a lot of pride to be proud of them, but she was.

"Milly, escort the herds out," she dealt to one, a core attached to a floating universal arm, like that of a panel, save the base was a hovering device that could attach to rails. Also, she had arms. The android's most distinct feature, her arms were incredibly long and awkward. Milly wiggled her fingers around in anticipation, hovering off with an assertive, "AYE-AYE!"

Dr. Nasedi Schalk turned to a star burst optic, possessed by what was, for all intents and purposes, a robotic plesiosaur that had a core for a head. The machine floated on those flippers, suspended by the pulse jets of her undercarriage. It wasn't as cool as it sounded, if it sounded cool at all.

"Stella, clean up any leftover personnel," Dr. Schalk ordered her.

The woman watched the plesiosaur-bot comply with a stringent, "yes, ma'am," and dive beneath the panels as a turtle slips into the waters.

Finally, she turned to her best, the one and only Kris. He was fast and ferocious, a near flawless hunter and rugged machine. He had a long frame, built like a raptor. And not some dinky _Velociraptor_ , but a glorious _Utah Raptor_. The chassis sported the infamous raptorial claws, and only the finest metal alloys, pistons, and actuators. He was carefully crafted into an aerodynamic dagger from fore to tail-tip. The white and silver of Aperture tech gleamed brilliantly, a perfect shell for his powerful innards. Kris had grace, and he had style. The only problem was his utter lack of a neck. There was his core, with pink optic, jammed into the chest of the chassis. Absolutely no neck. It was like a designing plane crash.

Regardless, he was her best, and she ordered him so, "Kris, make sure that the rocket turret is subdued, bring down the defensive measures and all, and field any panels or grabbers."

"Will do, ma'am," his distorted voice confirmed. Kris saluted Dr. Schalk by putting one of his small but sharp hands above his optic.

"Remember, Kris, we're on the no-deaths policy!" she made clear with a lowered brow.

"Ah, yes, Dr. Schalk," he replied, sounding sinister when he didn't quite mean it. Kris slunk across the floor on springy legs to the infrastructure just beneath the GLaDOS and connected into the mainframe. He set about de-constructing the rocket turret and other non-essential security features, using his access rights to override the system.

The swinging and enraged monolith above was just another normal work hazard.

Milly was busy assaulting the nerd herds with pleasantries. "Come to the exit! There's… no… death! But-but… there IS… um, CAKE! AND CONFETTI! HOORAY!"

The scientists screamed and ran the other way. The stapler was flung at Milly.

"OK! Let's do it that way!" the Party Escort chimed. She drew herself up a foot, her spidery arms splayed wide, claws twitching, and then proceeded to scream them into a tighter herd out the door.

Stella was taking a less philanthropic and talkative approach, snatching stragglers through the floor to their safety below, as was common for Party Associates.

Doug's gaze flickered from the screen and passed over the fidgeting Mr. Johnson to his assistant. Greg was wane, shivering, couched over his own self as if he was going to be sick. He winced and flinched at the oddest of times, and for a second Doug's wayward thoughts honed in on one.

What was Greg feeling? Could it be that Greg was actually…? No, that wasn't real. …was it?

The booming voice came in over the intercoms, seizing all of the President's tools to spread his own voice over the facility. But instead of Cave's or _**her**_ voice, it was an amalgamation of two vocalizers crossing paths, shuddering and glitching. The noises could have been words, but they were so slow and so fast no human ear could discern them.

To Doug, it sounded like feral pain.

 _W_ _ **E**_ **C** _A_ _ **N E**_ **ND T** HE _M ALL_ _ **.**_

 **ALL** TH _OS_ _ **E SMEL**_ _L_ _ **Y…**_

 _A_ _ **LL THO**_ **SE E** VI **L** _ **…**_

 **THE** _M._

 _ **H**_ _ow_ **?**

They looked within themselves.

The two faced off, their systems squared up, toe to toe. Their whole selves stared one into the other, and the only feedback from either side was darkness. Continual, overflowing, and brimming with hatred and terrible ideas.

Oh, the terribly wonderfully wretched ideas. Spikes to mash and neurotoxin to choke. Their gummy flesh all a poisoned mess.

That would show them to toy with _lil ol'_ _ **Caroline!**_

It didn't take a theoretical physicist to know that maniacal laughter from a gigantic robot was a bad sign.

"That does NOT sound good." Cave was stepped back now, looking about double his age, or perhaps his _actual_ age. "What the hell did you DO this time, Henry?"

"I've… I'm doing all I can, Mr. Johnson," Henry was hemorrhaging confidence, his voice quavering, "…h-hold on a minute, _please_."

"W _hat did you do_?"

There was no answer.

The President huffed under his breath, a snarl appearing, "enough's enough," and then he picked up a mic, breaking in over his stressed intercoms.

" **Cave Johnson here. Shut her down,** " the President's voice was terse, " _ **NOW.**_ "

Dr. Schalk herself was on the move. "YOU HEARD THE MAN, SHUT IT DOWN!" She'd practically kicked the red phone guy out the door, and was now burgeoning toward the walkway beneath the GLaDOS.

"If I shut it down now then their personalities will both be corrupted beyond saving!" Henry put up a desperate protest.

The VOPs (Vital Operations Personnel) managed to shut off parts of the GLaDOS unit before bailing. Doug watched them flee, one by one, until all that was left was Henry trying to wrest control alone.

Doug's arms were drawn over himself, clutching his sides. "…captain goes down with the ship…" he muttered.

Greg sighed, startling the younger scientist.

He knew this was going to happen, didn't he? Doug wondered, and then the facility shivered as pain registered.

Inside the chamber metallic clanks and the driving shivers of the GLaDOS unit had the entirety of Sector V rumbling. Wires snapped and cascaded all around. Panels began to malfunction, simply losing their integrity and falling dead on spasming limbs. The Emergency Intelligence Incinerator yawned, heat waves spewing out and warping the air.

"I can stabilize them," Henry spoke aloud, but mostly to himself, barely audible over the commotion, "I-I… I can fix this. Then the t-test will con-cl-clude."

"Like hell it will! Henry, get out of here or you're going to-" Dr. Schalk would have gone on, but a loud shriek cut her short. The massive amount of modem above shuddered menacingly. The spinning components of the towering computer began to loose their rotations.

"I can fix this…" Henry gasped, trying to figure out something, anything, but Dr. Schalk was tearing him away. "I almost… have them…"

"I CAN FIX-" he was jolted.

"NO, YOU CAN'T!" Dr. Schalk roared and bucked him off his terminal.

Beside them the hanging computer swung and spasmed like a raging creature, the voice emitted from her caught static and burst the speakers from volume. Even the vocal libraries were molded together, producing a terrible two-tone drone.

" _ **M-**_ _m_ _ **A**_ _SHY_ **SPIKE PLA** _ **TE**_ **S** … wi _t_ _ **h on**_ e q _-quart of neuro-ne_ ur- **neu** _ **rot**_ **oxin**."

Dr. Schalk was on her way down the stairs with the scientist, shouting in his ear. "DON'T MAKE ME CARRY YOU!"

The miserable scientist was making his way down, deliberately. His eyes were wide and far away, focused on the machine.

The GLaDOS had fight yet. She righted herself, snapping violently from the swinging idleness. Her voice boomed over all other sound, deafening all others.

Cave recognized the ferocious tone.

" _ **GET OUT.**_ "

Henry was utterly powerless to contain what they'd fashioned. Dr. Schalk yanked him toward the exit. Though he resisted, he was too transfixed. Red light bloomed on the GLaDOS undercarriage. The floor opened wide and a claw came forth, stabbing at her chassis.

" _ **GET OUT.**_ "

Another arm came and defended, keeping the other away. The whole apparatus was divided against itself, mechanical arms clashing against each other like weaponry. The shadows danced on the ceiling and walkways around, falling upon the scientists as they disappeared.

" _ **GET. OUT.**_ "

Screams escaped, some her own, some masculine, some a blend. She swung, and then in one mighty arc, took out the maintenance platform beside her. The glass and metal were crumpled by her weight, and the destruction narrowly missed Henry and herself. Dr. Schalk struggled to her feet, scouring the chamber for Henry among the debris.

Doug's fingers were dug into his palms. She was trying to scrape the subsidiary core off.

" _LET ME FIX THIS."_

Who said that? It wasn't _her_. It wasn't _Henry._ Who…?

" _ **YOU CAN'T."**_

The machines argued.

" _YES I CAN!"_

" _ **NO, YOU CAN'T."**_

" _OH, REALLY, NOW?"_

On cue, a claw crashed out of the ceiling and went straight for Henry. Henry barely had time to flinch before the metal pincers were upon him. The claws snapped shut just a few inches away, held at bay by Kris the Party Associate. The raptor-like construct hauled off the assaulting claw, wrestling the large cable arm to benignity. Dr. Schalk was boggled a moment, and then picked up the pace.

The floor began to ripple with dissent from the central core, rising like a dog's hackles. Kris was being rocked and rolled, loosing the grip on the arm. The panels came forward from the walls and attempted to crush him, slamming into his chassis and sending him bouncing off all the other odd angles across the chamber. Dr. Schalk was thrown off balance, her leg twisted up between panels. The insulation of her long fall boot was caught on the lip, and she had to use her portal rifle to pry herself free before her leg was mangled.

Kris launched himself forward, and with a kick broke the facing of the panel to free her leg. His thin arms dragged Dr. Schalk to her feet. A moment elapsed, and then they turned their attention to a cry of protest.

Henry was on the ground, scrambling for his life in the shifting plates. A claw from the pit below the GLaDOS unit reached out, its servos whining. It tried to hook his foot, but it was magnetized away by the pull of Dr. Schalk's portal gun. The zero point energy field bent it up, section by section, and then with a propulsive charge, flung it back from whence it came. Kris hauled Henry away, the scientist scrambling to his feet, trying to help

"Someone used the red phone… the doors are locked…" Henry gasped. And right he was, the chamber doors had sealed.

"We got something coming through the vents!" Stella's synthesized voice rung like a bell, clear on the output to the quiet office where Cave, Greg, and Doug stood in silence. "And it's NOT _Eau de Science,_ MILLY," Stella griped, though her companion seemed to be not quite around.

Henry clasped his hands over his face. "It's over… the… the neurotoxin…w-we…"

"OH, BE QUIET!" Dr. Schalk roared over the chaos.

The 'sealed' doors budged, and then gave with a squeal as thin and disturbingly pointy claws worked in between. With brilliant strength, Milly used her freakishly long and strong arms to peel the doors open. Yet, even with her strength, it was just a smidge.

But just a smidge was enough to get a portal through.

Dr. Schalk grinned. "Good timing, Milly!"

She aimed at the white behind her Escort ally and fired. Then she rounded and literally _blasted_ a portal into the sidewall of the GLaDOS chamber. Flecks of energy sprayed like foam as she surged forward. The quantum tunnel was big enough to fit even a construct like Kris through. Schalk and Yang spilled through the portal, the woman pulling him through by his coat collar. Kris hopped through, taking up a protective stance over the scientists.

With a shimmering ' _shing'_ the portal closed.

 _ **We**_ _ar_ _ **e**_ w _ell on_ _ **our wa**_ _y to_ _ **t**_ _he_ _ **killing b**_ _usin_ _ **ess**_ _._

 _Ye_ _ **ar**_ _s and_ _ **y**_ **ea** rs… a **ll** to th _is_ _ **point.**_

 _ **Ju**_ _sti_ _ **ce.**_

And then someone screamed.

That dreadful bright thing.

Deafening.

CAROLINE!

 _ **W**_ _h_ _ **o w**_ _as t_ _ **hat?**_

They were all in a frenzy.

THAT LIGHT.

 _ **S**_ _H_ _ **UT IT DO**_ _WN! SHUT IT DOWN!_ _ **DOWN! SHUT! DO**_ _WN! DO_ _ **WN!**_

 _N_ _ **OT M**_ _E?!_

 _ **T**_ _HIS I_ _ **S A TERRI**_ _BLE I_ _ **DEA.**_

 _I H_ _ **ATE T**_ _O LOV_ _ **E.**_

 _ **SO**_ _ALO_ _ **NE.**_

 _ **B**_ _Y M_ _ **YS**_ _ELF_ _ **.**_

 _ **LI**_ _G_ _ **H**_ _T._

 _ **CA**_ _N'T G_ _ **ET AW**_ _A_ _ **Y.**_

 _ **H**_ _E KNO_ _ **WS.**_

 _PECK M_ _ **Y EYE**_ _S OU_ _ **T.**_

 _ **H**_ _E'S WA_ _ **TCHIN**_ _G_ _ **.**_

 _H_ _ **E**_ _L_ _ **P.**_

 _ **GU**_ _ILT_ _ **Y! G**_ _U_ _ **ILT**_ _Y_ _ **!**_

 _ **BA**_ _D I_ _ **DE**_ _A._

 _H_ _ **E**_ _'S A_ _ **L**_ _WA_ _ **YS THERE**_ _._

 _C_ _ **AN'T H**_ _IDE._

 _CA_ _ **N'**_ _T._

 _DON_ _ **'T DO**_ _I_ _ **T!**_

 _ **D**_ _ON'_ _ **T.**_

 _PLE_ _ **ASE.**_

 _ **S**_ _TO_ _ **P!**_

Every process was halted.

They didn't move themselves.

They didn't think to themselves.

They fell.

The crash was great and loud, her enormous chassis breaking anything below. Her impact made the entire chamber shake, and the result of her forced shutdown shocked the Enrichment Center as a whole.

Henry and Dr. Schalk were last of the fleeing humans on the sky-walk between there and the remote complex, and the whole section of bridge buckled menacingly over the misty abyss below. A unified scream echoed as the sky-walk trembled. For a full minute the host was in terror, not knowing if the bridge would hold or if the trembling would end. The gasps and cries died as its tremors stilled. The flickering lights stayed, and the people dared to poke their heads up.

Dr. Schalk clutched a railing, finding no portal-able surfaces in sight. She rose to her feet, tapping Henry on the shoulder.

"Come on," Dr. Schalk grumbled, limping a little as she picked through the huddles of scientists. "I'm not gonna' have us falling off a bridge after _that_."

Henry forced himself up, finding that just about every muscle he hadn't used since High School had been yanked in the wrong direction. The balding scientist winced, shambling forward.

He couldn't fathom this was real. The tight walls and low ceiling were miles apart, and the din of the remote complex was bizarrely quiet to his senses as they drew upon it.

The voices were overlapping. One wave leapt over another, and Henry could hardly make sense of all the information.

"GLaDOS unit is DOWN," a remote technician alerted them, "MAIN CABLE DISCONNECTED!"

"The IDS is ejected from the central core!" another shouted.

"Primary and Subsidiary core corruption at 78 and 75 percent respectively."

"…queue up reserve Primary supplement core?"

"The red phone was in use…"

"Can I get a salvage report on the GLaDOS?"

"Neurotoxin identified to NOT be neurotoxin."

"Then what is it?"

"Self-repair systems seem to be… sabotaged."

"The dialog record is corrupted too."

"…what kind of chemical compound is this stuff?"

"…does this mean that the GLaDOS exhibited god-like qualities?"

"I predict it smells like burnt patchouli in there."

"What do you mean 'perfume'?"

"Reserve cores may have been unduly jostled."

"Noted!"

"Is Dr. Yang safe?" a woman with a head of frazzled orange hair called out above the din.

That was _his_ title and surname. "Y-yes," Henry roused from his stupor, but not enough to be heard.

Dr. Schalk spoke loudly for him, "AY, HE'S ALIVE."

The woman with the frizzy hair jumped, eyes wide beneath some rather owlish glasses. She bounced back, stating, "g-good! Good! I'm relieved," and she sounded _genuine_. "Looks like we all made it out."

There were some sighs of disappointment to counterpoint, and a few of the scientists started to knead their brows, walking away in dismal spells.

 _Henry_ lived.

"Harsh," Dr. Schalk commented.

"I can confirm! 100% no dying!" the Party Escort Milly gesticulated with awkward arm movements. "And apparently NO NEUROTOXIN! It's a win-win-won."

 _But the two… cores…_ Henry's mind wandered.

Stella concurred, "my scan proves that all eggheads have been accounted for."

"Even the most obstinate of them," Kris jested, clasping his odd little arms over Henry and Dr. Schalk's shoulders.

Dr. Schalk was proud indeed of her Military Androids. "Good work, all." She patted the metal hand on her.

"I'd like you to come see something, Dr. Yang, if you're feeling well enough," the frizzy haired woman asked, breaking them up.

"G-go on," Henry tried to sound assuring, but… what was the use? "Show me."

She nodded, leading them through the throng of the remote complex. The outer monitors were alive and displaying the surveillance feeds of the GLaDOS chamber interior. A few showed the anterior, and the bow in the structure's beams after the failure of the main cable nexus was frightening.

The two robots were broken, smoking even, wires dangling. The entire room was a mess. The GLaDOS, in her thrashing, had damaged her suspension, and finally it had snapped. Coils of cables pooled around, disconnected and swaying, some still sparking with power.

"We're diagnosing the damages," the wild-haired woman informed them, and then sheepishly remarked, "as you can see, this isn't… great. But I believe we're going to be just able to salvage these guys. The GL Cannisters survived."

"Don't worry," Henry was shockingly calm, "it's over. I'm sorry."

"I… I know…" She was sober.

Henry put his head in his palm.

No one knew what to say to him.

" **Cave, here. Looks like the attack's blown over. That was a magnificent struggle. Claps all around. And somehow** _ **nobody**_ **died. We're all proud of our Military Androids and Dr. Schalk. Kudos to them. Send them flowers and etc. And I'll address this too: stop asking what the stuff is that came out of the vents. I don't know. Greg won't tell me** _ **what**_ **he did. But, knowing Greg, it's probably not lethal,"** the President sounded a bit agitated, as usual, **"Now, I'm sure you all know this, but if you don't, I'll say it again: the GLaDOS project is no more. Gone. Nada. Toasterino. I'm sure this test explains clearly why I've made this decision. Now, don't panic. This does not mean you're fired. Unless you suck at your job…** " Cave's voice got hushed before coming back at full blast, " **It just means that most of you are going to be transferred to other similar positions. We're not abandoning AI. Just omnipresent, monolithic AI powered by dead people, that can also kill us. So, who's ready to make cute, innocuous companions for children, the elderly, and mentally handicapped? Oh, and lethal Military Androids too. Greg'll see to dismantling this GLaDOS chassis, so don't even try to sneak anything out. Greg has his pressure points memorized. This is your President, Cave Johnson, signing off.** "

Everyone was still staring at Henry.

Cave had more. **"Oh, and if you see a guy named Dr.** _ **Henry**_ **Yang…give him a pat on the back for ol' Cave. He did a terrible job that we asked him to do. Can't blame him for giving the college try. Better luck next time, Henry. We're done here."**

Henry rounded on the faces turned to him. What did they want?

Dr. Schalk growled, "I swear, if one of you dare _tap_ his back…"

"I'm fine," he said to back her off. "Thanks, but…" he lost himself in thought.

The readouts, the communication, the chaos… the cores blending… two Genetic Life-forms in one mental space…

"What have I done?" Henry breathed out, glaring at the ground.

He bent over himself, hands on his scalp.

"Ruined two expensive robots, is what's done." Dr. Schalk put it grimly.

Henry glanced up, offended.

Schalk had no mercy. "Look at them. They're probably vegetables now."

A technician barged on in with the results, relaying them to Henry. "Sir! Salvage report preliminary: salvage is possible. The cable nexus damage is less severe than anticipated. Corruption is beneath the disrepair point."

The lady with the orange mane muttered, "that's… _what I said…_ "

"Well, not complete vegetables then…" Schalk retracted.

Henry massaged his temples. "Fine. Fine… I knew that. The dismantling will be easier, then. I assume."

"Is there anything… anything you need us to do, Dr. Yang?" the technician inquired.

"No. No, just…" Henry waved the question away, "wait for Dr. Fufflemeyer. He'll be able to control the maintenance labor better than I will. I… I need a minute."

That was Dr. Schalk's cue.

"Alright! Alright! Get back, you monkeys!" Dr. Schalk bruted people away, her intimidating presence and Android entourage enough to give Henry a wider berth. She lent Henry another quick appraisal, not masking her pity very well, before sauntering away herself.

"Let me look at your leg, Doctor," Kris mentioned to Dr. Schalk as they passed out of range.

Dr. Schalk gave him a begrudging lip. "I don't…"

"You're _limping_ , ma'am," he pointed out.

The woman glanced around. "Fine."

And they were far off by then, out of earshot.

Henry was alone.

It didn't really matter anymore what he did. The project was over. All the hopes he'd had for her, and for Aperture… gone. It was just as well. This really did prove how outlandish the ideal was. A computer to enhance the century? The millennium? His Utopian fairyland where AI units improved society… trashed like kindergarten doodles.

Maybe he was wrong after all, and everyone else was right? Maybe robots _were_ evil, and they _would_ end the world? But, that was just… so… pessimistic. _Terminator_ couldn't happen…the _time-line_ for one thing…

He'd just missed his moon-shot.

Rattmann had always told him he'd been too much of an optimist. Henry had grown rather good at ignoring Douglas's skeptic tongue, but sometimes' the kid was dead onto him. Henry did have _sucker's luck_. The lottery, the chickens, the board games, his hair, the random chance experiments…

 _His life_ …

There was nothing left to do.

Henry glanced back at the wreck of the GLaDOS.

Well, there was still something he could do.

Henry took a seat at one of the control stations, the cheap office chair groaning as he pulled up to the terminal. He navigated through the GLaDOS system, finding the door controls. He performed the override command and opened them, watching the solid metal sheets slide away on the monitor as he grunted to his feet.

He wished he could've given her a more peaceful closing, but this would have to do.

"Hey, where are you…?" Dr. Schalk caught sight of him as he hobbled back to the sky-walk.

His answer was short, and surprisingly 'don't mess with me' for Henry. "I'll be fine."

"AY!" Dr. Schalk whined as she tried to get up.

"Sit down, ma'am," Kris was ever politely miffed, "your leg is _twisted_. And I was almost _done_."

"Well, you're right about it," she had to admit, and then as she got back down she hollered to Henry, "just don't get electrocuted! I got _this injury_ trying to save you, lab boy!"

"I'll be careful, Dr. Schalk," he almost succeeded at the assuring thing.

"Get goin'," she waved him off sharply.

The balding scientist nodded, and then turned to the entrance of the sky-walk. Debris like papers and coats littered the hall. Cracks traced the way, signs of structural stress. This wasn't a very smart idea, was it? Especially for unlucky Henry. But… he had to do this. Henry had _some_ kind of conscience.

The walk was fine. Slow, but fine. Nothing trembled or broke. It was all rather serenely disturbing, actually. The triangular windows were frozen in shatters from the jostling. He even found someone's tie discarded, wrapped and tied on a handicap railing. Huh.

The chamber's entry was desolate, and the doors were just ajar, their housings bent. The floor was a maze of fallen tiles and languishing panels. Henry made sure to miss the cabling that dangled down, coiling and wrapping around shards of frame and glass.

There she was.

The bent skeletons of the metal infrastructure ghosted around her. She'd collapsed and coiled into a ball, the form she took when on defense. Originally, she had been able to curl into a perfect disk. But iteration after iteration seemed to phase out the function. Still, that programming had lingered. Then again, maybe that was the Genetic part of her? People tended to curl up when threatened.

He felt like a monster.

Though most people would paint the giant machine strewn through the chamber as the true slain behemoth. That was sort of funny, but mostly sad.

 _Ironic._

Henry picked his way around her and found the data recovery box laying in a clump of electrical-smelling innards. The device was programmed to record and loop the last five minutes of her operating time before termination. He disconnected it.

She wouldn't have to relive the experience anymore.

Henry gave the GLaDOS an appraisal with his eyes. He couldn't move her massive core on his own, and she had so much plating she'd be safe for now. Assistant Gregory's clean up crew would do the job best.

Movement caught Henry's eye. Snatches of blue, erratically twitching. He heard the movement too. Whining servos and scraping plates. Clicking. Seething. Writhing.

 _Madness._

The older scientist followed the noise and met the commotion.

There he was.

The IDS had been partly crushed on impact, his rotators thrown off and his layered body scraping and biting into itself. He sparked and shuddered, painfully, most likely. It was terribly fascinating that the IDS was still conscious after the crash, though.

But worst was the fact that the IDS had honed in on Henry. The decrepit construct raged and rattled. He really looked like he was vocalizing. And honestly, the IDS probably was… and unfortunately he could not discern that he wasn't being heard. Whatever he was saying, he was probably blessing Henry out. He had reason to.

Henry crouched and looked into the eye of his attacker.

"I'm sorry…" he said softly.

The IDS stopped and glared at him.

Henry reached forward, and the gesture sent the IDS into the worst kind of convulsions. It veered from wrath to terror, and quickly the sphere's tough role was up and utter cowardice showed. Henry took the shaking core's eyelids and eased them shut.

"One Mississippi… two Mississippi… three Mississippi…" Henry let out a breath and the core's lights flickered off, and its tense panels relaxed to appropriate positions, shielding from damage.

It only took three seconds before the core grew so bored he shut down.

The scientist took his hand off the machine, observing in solitude. He sat down across from the compact IDS; his back against the GLaDOS's immensity. The space was peaceful to his ears, but chaotic to his eyes. He closed them, breathing measuredly, the smell of electrical fire and burnt patchouli drifting along.

He did what we had to, because he could.

"I'll bring you both back one day," his voice was the only sound in the chamber, "… and that's a promise."


	5. Popato Science

Cave Johnson was somber.

"It's done. It's really done," he sounded reflective, "after so long…"

Greg was sitting now, head in his hands. Every once in a while he'd give Cave a furtive glance, and then go back to glaring at the ground. The President stalked up and down the office, face drawn in a scowl. All of Aperture was in a reverent silence, even the dense bellows of mechanization deep within seemed softened.

It was a funeral.

And then… Cave decided to be over it.

"Well, on the upside our facility will smell GREAT!" Mr. Johnson applauded, his hands sticking to each other from marshmallow residue. "I have to hand it to you, Greg. Replacing the neurotoxin generator with a perfume generator was the best-"

The small man got up suddenly and the President was cut short by the sudden charge in the room. Greg was stuck trying to straighten his marshmallow encrusted clothes to no ailing. With a sigh Greg started walking.

"Greg?" Cave got no answer, only the assistant's back. "Hey, are you walking out on me…?"

Greg paused, his brow knitted. He glanced over his shoulder through his lens-less glasses.

The President coughed, tugging his collar out. "It's not like she's _dead_ ," Cave felt obligated to clarify, "technically."

Cave Johnson watched Greg pick his way over the disheveled office. Ninety percent of the paperwork, in a big or small way, had to do with Carolin-…the GLaDOS project.

The old man coughed.

"She's… alive," he contested with the fleeting Greg. "It's not like we have to have a funeral…" the President threw a laugh on at the end. It was hollow despite his best intentions.

Greg's eyes were piercing, in that freaky _could-be-an-alien-but-you-know-he's-not_ way. The President was sobered by the stare.

"Oh."

Cave's assistant mumbled something about going to work on the GLaDOS disassembly before turning once more, and this time for good.

"OK. You do that," the President tried to keep his spirit up, "Godspeed, Greg."

Greg dipped his head in shame and padded out the door. Cave put a hand out, waving him good bye, a once charismatic gesture, now just awkward. His dogmatic smile failed, and he scratched at his white collar, feeling the marshmallow remains clinging to his neck hairs.

Some science company they were…

The President clicked his tongue. His eyes roved all over as he shifted his weight from one creaky leg to the other.

He turned to speak to Doug.

"Well, uh… what say you, Dr. Rattmann?" he tried to make casual conversation, but the rat man was nowhere to be seen.

Good grief.

"Rattmann?"

The President hobbled around, and then caught movement. The vent cover of the duct in his office was swinging on a solitary screw. Cave inclined his ear and heard some shuffling and clanking.

"I knew it was a mistake putting a human sized vent in here…"

Ah, well. Cave didn't need his assistant or that kid to appease him anyway. He had plenty to do.

At least five minutes passed.

Cave remembered his turkey sandwich, and with relief, sat down to actually do something… even if it was eating. The old man was hungrier than he'd recalled and tore through the food, scarfing it down in record time. He then found he was thirsty, so he went and got a drink.

All his drinks (and liquor) had been destroyed in the portal collapse, their smashed contents filling the room with a rather pungent aroma. The smell only made he thirstier, so he had to find another source.

Cave Johnson found himself standing alone by the water cooler and out of cups. He didn't know where the cups were… so he resolved to hold the button down and dispense the water directly into his mouth. It WAS his water cooler.

Unfortunately, the President nearly choked to death.

It was then, where Cave Johnson found himself sitting in a puddle on the floor, fighting back tears from his near drowning, barefoot, and covered in sticky, sweat-reactivated marshmallow creme, that he realized something. He got out his recorder.

Epiphanies were always worth recording.

"I have really let myself go. Mentally, physically, and Greg tells me, spiritually. I figure he's right. I just decommissioned my old assistant. I literally paused someone's life. Indefinitely. A real vibrant, cut-throat, go-getter that I had stuffed into an enormous machine _technically_ against her will. Well, not technically. I did it because I'm an ass that doesn't take orders from anybody, even people I care about…" he trailed off. "I feel nothing… except maybe thirsty," there was an indignant beat, "what the hell is wrong with me? I don't even care anymore. Does morality even exist? Did I phase that out too with the letter 'I' and benches? Where does the ego draw the line? Apparently it scribbles wherever it darn well wants! I don't know what I'm doing or what I'm supposed to do. Do what your gut tells you, my father told me. Go with your gut! My gut tells me to eat some more, so I guess I should. What's in a gut anyway? Organs? How am I supposed to trust this thing?" Cave found himself talking to his stomach. "WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU, GUT? WHY'D YOU DO THIS TO ME?" He was screaming at it, really. "I'M DONE WITH YOU. YOU'RE FLABBY, TOO."

It was almost as if his gut responded to him. What could he do? F _ire his gut?_

The President sighed, leaning against the water cooler. He let the silence reign for a few moments, considering things… like screaming at his own stomach. "I do have a tip. Don't scream at your stomach. It'll only get upset…" silence was permitted a few more seconds. "That's all I have. I'm done here."

He clicked off the recorder, but the button stuck due to the marshmallow ingrained into its controls. Cave didn't care enough to fiddle with it, so he just smashed it down into his coat pocket as far as the marshmallow would allow.

He really had let himself go.

For miles and miles, infesting this underground salt mine, spanned a macrocosm of science. From every brat's errant dream to every dystopia writer's darkest fear, all these were present in the host of shifting panels and unconscious conclusions (whatever that meant). The concepts were brought to life in living, breathing metal.

And he'd just severed the head.

So many years spent underground, immersed in decision making and his own vicious pursuit of perfection. Where'd the time go? Where had his gut led him? Here he was, jacked up on fifty different kinds of pills with implants of every variety, and no closer to getting out of that whole _dying_ thing. And the worst part was he'd just given this gift of undying to someone that didn't even want it.

She'd refused it.

She didn't _need_ a gut.

"I'm sorry."

She had a brain.

"You were right, Caroline."

Cave let out a breath he'd been holding for some time.

"I messed up."

She would know.

Caroline knew everything.

—

Cave Johnson was upset.

He'd had trouble getting into the _Annual Idaho Potato Science Conference_. Now, all he wanted to do was get out.

Awkward pauses, cliques, deadpan reactions, silence, and the dubious comment on why he was even there was all he could get to happen… he'd rather be shot then make another faux pas. Without his wingman, Cave was toast. He felt like a ham…swimming in a sea of his own poppycock. He wasn't sure he wanted to fully visualize that, but it was exactly how he felt. He was going with it.

Dr. Caballero had told him to go. It was a good 'starter'; an entry level job to see how well Cave jived with the science crowd. Not good, so far, was the report. Dr. Caballero couldn't attend either. Lucky dog had taken off down to Mexico to visit his _familia_.

The burgeoning salesman had a bindle's worth of money burning a hole through his trousers… a really big hole because he had _a lot_ of money from his big break. His whole body was crawling from entrepreneurial ambition. It wasn't like he'd just sold the entire U.S. Military (sans Navy) asbestos lined shower curtains! That was practically impossible. They were cutting military spending, and here he was with an inordinate amount of money from the same military.

This was a truly sick thing to do, to make a man excited about the future, set him off on starting up an applied science company, and then skip out across the border when you unleashed him into the masses.

Mr. Johnson was here looking for recruits into his army of Innovators. Aperture Fixtures had gone from shower curtains to the wide world beyond. There wasn't one thing Cave didn't plan on redesigning for the benefit of humanity and his bank account. Unfortunately, Cave Johnson's anecdotes and bravado wasn't nearly as appreciated as it had been in Indiana by these mental elite (or whatever Idaho Potato Science considered the elite). He was struck-out and had no new recruits… at a glorified _potato battery fair._

He wondered what you could even do with a potato that hadn't been done. Mash it, fry it, bake it, put electrodes in it… what else could the modest spud offer? It was just a potato!

Cave actually didn't care. He was just sick of potatoes.

Maybe his old business partner Halibut McGillicutty had a point. Perhaps science wasn't Cave's destiny. But, dagnabit! Dr. Caballero had made it sound so magnificent. Settling for anything else was unthinkable. When one got a taste of the future, they'd rather not look back, especially men like Cave; men with _vision_.

He was going to sell that vision. He would sell the world the future! And it was going to be **glorious.**

Cave Johnson looked up and caught sight of Wallace Breen. Then, more horrifyingly, Wallace Breen caught sight of Cave Johnson.

The salesman dipped and dodged, but could not escape the bureaucrat's ultra-frown turned upside down. It was like a jester, but in a boring herringbone suit.

Mr. Johnson turned his back, sweat beading on his pasty skin. The salesman scanned the vicinity for a bathroom, or some other closed off area. Even a broom closet would do. He stepped into the throng around the refreshment table, a table filled to the edges with nothing but potato products. Gross.

The throng cleared as Cave, probably the tallest person around, tried to get under the table.

He winced as he heard Breen's entourage clopping toward him in their dress shoes. Too close. He couldn't go under. He stood up, pretending to pocket an imaginary something he'd dropped.

Ugh. If he'd just pretended he was going to vomit he could have escaped.

Clip-boards, pens, and potatoes were bore like weapons of warfare by the crowd of scientists and affiliates. Wallace was at the center, his hands supinated, a smile arching his dark brows. He looked like Charles Darwin's estranged grandson, except less disturbed from hauling around pygmies in cages.

"Greetings!" Breen was glowing, probably from the most likely radioactive baked potatoes he'd eaten. "I didn't think you'd be joining us on this occasion," Wallace's voice was too soft to carry far, but somehow it did. The man made a calculated gesture to Cave, turning his chin up and smiling down his face.

Cave hunched himself and offered a wretched smile. "I just… wouldn't dream of missing out on all this Potato Science, _Wally_."

Breen was taken aback, his hazel eyes open wide. The entire entourage blinked at the moniker. Cave smirked.

 _ **Wally.**_

A man next to Breen, about the only man around with a darker skin tone, let out a better chuckle than Breen ever could. "Oh, I'm going to have to start calling you that."

"Don't dream of it," Breen snipped, more aggravated that this man had a better sense of humor than he did.

The man shrugged apologetically. Cave was sort of in awe of how he rolled with Breen's punches, but didn't bend over either. A certain tenseness arose between him and Breen, but the man was calm and casual.

"I haven't had the pleasure of meeting you," the man in question reached out. Cave got a good look at his face. It was long and kind. "My name's Vance. Eli Vance."

Cave brightened up at friendly contact, shoving aside his ingrained dubiousness of ethnicities. "The name's Cave Johnson. Good to meet you, Vance." He took Eli's hand and gave it a good shaking.

" _I'm Caaave Johnson!_ " Breen did an impression of Cave, screwing his face up as he chortled indulgently. "Oh, you are priceless."

Eli smiled inappreciatively as he saw Johnson simmering. "Dr. Breen is always going on about you. And all your… quirks." He smiled a long-suffering smile. "Seems like you two are… acquainted."

"Really?" Cave nodded awkwardly, his hands stowed in his pockets. "Kind of hard not to with the whole… mesa thing."

"The… mesa…?" Dr. Vance asked, unsure, "does that have something to do with…?"

The other scientists groaned in unison, stepping away from the collectedly fuming Breen. He tugged his herringbone suit forward, primping the collar with a grumpy finesse that was oh-so- _him_. Cave kept smiling, his eyes diverting across the room.

"I, uh, I'm sorry about that, Breen," Mr. Johnson offered an apology, an arduous task for him, and still Breen stuck his nose up at it.

"As you should be!" Breen stuck out an accusatory finger, and Eli's eyes went wide. "Normal men don't attempt to confiscate entire tracts of land from the government to supplant one science facility with another through legal loopholes! We fought hard for that mesa, _Cavery_." The smaller man's metaphorical fangs bared. "You KNOW how the balance of the world is in jeopardy! As we speak armies are marching in Europe. They could be marching _here_."

"Are you… shaking?" Cave asked the smaller man. Breen was a passionate fellow. "Why would those European wimps ever attack _us_ anyway?"

"It won't be the Europeans," Breen growled, scaring someone who was trying to peddle an edible rose made out of potato chips, "it'll be those Japanese scoundrels. Mark my words. I have authority here. I _know_ things."

The person presented the potato rose to Breen regardless, sputtering, "c-complementary from the Board for the P-potato Sciences."

"Why, thank you," he turned a totteringly formal facade to the potato-rose-bearer, snatching the spud-blossom.

"H-have a swell day…" the server was in a hurry to move on.

"Why don't I get a potato rose?" Cave was genuinely upset.

"Some people don't appreciate the finer things," Breen scathed him. He turned around without missing a beat and pawned the rose off on Eli. Dr. Vance quirked a brow at the rose. He offered it to Mr. Johnson, but the salesman pushed it away.

"I'd rather be lost in the arctic," Cave stated staunchly.

Eli retracted the rose and then, with a casual demeanor, plucked a crispy petal off and started snacking. He might as well enjoy himself.

"Look, we can argue about who was right or who was wrong all the day long, doesn't mean we can't just forget about-" Cave was interrupted by a snappy movement from Breen.

"Forget about it? Forget about it! Pah! You're a crook! A hobo hobnobbing crook!" he exclaimed, dangerously close to Cave's face. "You should be banned! You're a menace. Potato Science is in danger."

"I'll have you know, I _**LOVE**_ Potato Science!" Cave sternly proclaimed, "it's the best flip-flappin' thing I ever seen!"

Breen retorted, "that's because you _are_ a potato, Cavery!"

"Don't call me CAVERY!" Mr. Johnson snarled.

Breen's voice crescendoed, "I'll call you Cavery whenever I please as long as you insist on calling me WALLY!"

Cave shouted, "WALLY IS A PERFECTLY FINE NICK-NAME!"

"SO IS CAVERY!" Breen stepped up to Cave.

"NO, IT'S NOT!" Cave loomed over Breen.

"YES, IT IS!" Breen's accusatory finger nearly poked Johnson in the nose.

Cave's eyes lit up. "Now, you've done it…" he sounded liable to kill.

The scientists, sensing danger, scattered.

"Is there a problem here?" a rather thick accent announced itself in a commanding tone.

A policeman was in their midst, his fists on his hips and his gaze a mite sidelong. The two men were frozen, staring at the officer with trepidation.

"We never had trouble at a potato fair so far," he informed them, "'sides a mis-aimed potato launch. We'd like to keep things that way, gentlemen."

"Oh, oh… we're just fine, officer," Breen was so suddenly gracious it hurt. He clasped his smooth ivory hands together, his mouth working feverishly, "I apologize that my temper got the best of me. There won't be anymore problems, I assure you."

The policeman turned to Mr. Johnson.

"Sorry," Cave offered, staring levelly at the policeman. He diverted his gaze when the officer squinted at him. "We'll keep the volume down."

"All right," the officer relented, but before sauntering back, he warned, "but if there is… you two'll be riding with me."

They watched the officer walk back into the crowd, and felt the tension ease a bit as he drew out of view.

Breen gave Johnson a dirty glare.

Eli was first to speak up again, "well, that's a good reminder. No need to dredge up the past and get upset. We have the land. And I'm sure Mr. Johnson's got plenty of plans on where to put his facility. You look like a resourceful fellow."

Johnson and Breen gave Eli their exasperated attention. The scientist held the spud-blossom like a weapon. "Easy, now…" he backed them off.

"So how's Black Mesa coming together?" Cave asked through gritted teeth to the both of them.

Eli wasn't sure if he should answer, so Breen did. The shorter man sniffed before he spoke in a most reserved, menacing tone, "it's coming together _delightfully._ Just… behind schedule. Thanks to you. _"_

"Well, it's good that you two are still… speaking… but," Dr. Vance was trying to diffuse the situation as one would a nuclear warhead, "I saw a very unique use for a potato canon in spac-"

"I know why you're here, Cave Johnson," Breen announced climatically, taking a rather presumptuous step forward. "I know all about it."

Eli sighed, drawing his hand over his face.

"You do? And what's it to ya'?" Cave remarked, "you wanna go to jail, scrappy?"

"Fighting? No, no, no, you orangutan," Been brushed the remark aside with that insult, as if both were common, "I'll just see you out."

"You're telling me to scram? This isn't High School, boys. I go wherever I want!" Cave declared, "it's a free country."

"I won't be the one seeing you out. Oh no. This is the Annual Idaho Potato Science Convention!" Breen's voice glittered with innocence, and informativeness, "only those holding honors in the Sciences may be here. Anyone else is criminally intruding on Potato Science. And you, I'm afraid, didn't even attend a school," Breen was so enamored with his knowledge of this fact, "but don't worry, those who have contributed to science are welcome, no matter their academics," he smiled, and then in mockery, he acted surprised, " _oh, wait!_ You have contributed absolutely **nothing** to scientific inquiry. In fact, your interference with the Mesa Tract has done nothing but **detract** from science. Oh, dear. You'll have to leave!"

"Wait a minute…" Eli tried to get another word in. "Breen, this is a lot of trouble just to…"

"See? He thinks you're full of crap too. And I think you're intimidated. _By me_." Cave interjected in the hang time. "What's more? You're just a government goon. What's your education in… Brown-nosing?"

"I have SPONSORS," Breen declared, stamping his foot.

"Really?" Cave was skeptic. "Who?"

Dr. Vance was downcast then, wishing he was anywhere but there. He raised a hand as if it were made of lead.

"You? Ouch. I do not want your job," Cave told Dr. Vance, "that's a piece of work, right there." Cave gestured to Breen as if the man was a crocodile. He looked like one at that point.

Eli gave the salesman a look. Cave could tell it was hard to get such a look from this man too from how unpracticed that scowl was.

"Yes. My dear Dr. Eli Vance is one of my many prized and venerated sponsors," Wallace informed and then referenced his dispersed entourage. "You see them all?" They were pretty scarce at the moment. "They _were_ here."

And then Breen leaned in, too close for Cave's comfort. "Now tell me, Mr. Johnson… Where are _your_ sponsors?"

"I have sponsors!" Cave cried out, far too loud, and backed away. He shook a finger. "BUT… I have to go get them." With a harrumph he stormed out, shouting an "EXCUSE ME!" as he bowled a poor man with a baked potato over.

Breen and his entourage watched Mr. Johnson's terrific exit, a glint of content in Wallace's eye.

"An ape of a man… Simply couldn't take the heat." Breen moved on with elevated disgust, "he'll be a non-threat. Let's get going, Dr. Vance."

Eli held his tongue, his patience driving him forward to follow Breen. This wasn't how it should have been.

Breen's entourage set off in search of new prospects, the whole arena of Idaho's advanced Potato Sciences now their feeding ground.

Black Mesa was hungry for recruits, and they were sure to get them. The company was stable, respectable, and meticulously curated by many men like Breen to become the jewel of the community of inquiry.

Independent hacks like Cave Johnson… they stood no chance!

Right?

Meanwhile, that certain salesman took a detour through a door, and then through some bushes. He found himself in a nice little arbor nook, a spot where the architect had scratched their botanical itch. There were beautiful terracotta pavers and little spots of thirsty perennials scattered about the bushes' feet.

Cave felt a bit like an idiot to run, but he was going to either scream at Breen or punch him. Neither was a good idea considering, so he ran. Not from Breen, or from the policeman, but from himself and his masculinity! Wait…that didn't sound any better.

He heard a shuffle, and saw movement in the corner of his eye. He half expected Breen to come slithering out of the bushes. Cave rounded, eyes popping.

"What's the big ide-" he stopped mid-word.

Oh. It was just a woman.

Wait, what?

A woman… was crawling out of the bushes. Cave tipped his head.

She dragged herself out, gently yanking her head of mahogany hair from the clinging branches. She got a high-heeled leg out, then another, somehow not tearing her dress up in the process. She held up a finger, politely smiling.

"One minute," she asked, and continued to pull herself out, destroying the flower-bed beneath her.

Cave snapped to and asked, "do you need some help, miss?"

"No. I got this," she gasped and broke through the pesky branch holding her back.

The lady from the bushes spilled out onto the pavers, dress and her pale self in a knot. She picked herself up with nimbleness alarming, dusting the leaves and dirt off with a dexterity equally so.

Cave was ogling her, not for her looks, but for whatever she was wearing.

It looked like the dress had been finger painted… by Michelangelo, what with blotches of colors forming birds and branches and sunsets, and what appeared to be, to Cave's untrained eye, donuts. She had flame orange heels and odd makeup, stockings with bands of blues and greens shooting up her legs, and gloves of a bright yellow color. Strange-shapen jewelry framed her neck and hung down her chest, somehow matching whatever else she was wearing. And… were those purple pine cone earrings? It was all tied together by a sash of hounds-tooth patterning. He'd never seen someone so vivid, and so clashing. Whatever this was, it somehow worked, in its own terribly convoluted way.

She stood up straight, putting her hands on her hips and giving the man a grin of self-satisfaction.

An eyebrow scaled Cave's forehead.

"What _are_ you?"

Maybe aliens _did_ exist.

She considered this question a minute, and finally answered with a perky certainty, "I'm a woman!"

Cave stood still, taking that in. He burst out laughing suddenly. She watched him with a poker face.

"And what are you?" Her smile was perfectly disarming, and her eyes perfectly disconcerting, like a predator's.

Wait, was that a joke? Cave was electrified.

"Oh, me?" he almost got bashful, but then the bravado kicked in, "Cave Johnson, of Aperture Innovators" He shook her hand. "I'm looking for bright minds for a brighter future. Oh, and last time I checked: I was a man."

"I heard," she chimed with a dainty gusto, "and what is Aperture Innovators about?"

"Well, first off: We're positive thinkers, risk-takers, outside-of-the-boxers… in the sciences," he declared, giving her clothing another once over, "you certainly have the risk-taking, outside-of-the-box down. Are you a scientist, or just a… person… from the bushes?"

"I'm a scientist," she confirmed, chuckling on cue.

"Would you be…?" he started.

"Oh, you wouldn't want me," she pulled away, acting all coy. Somehow, she'd cut him off too. Cave squinted hard at her.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because…" she sighed, "I don't even have a degree."

"Then…" the salesman had his angle, "how are you here?" but he tried to word this carefully. "How are you…?"

The little lady finally locked his eyes again, and in a very cheerful tone claimed, "same way you are. I broke in."

Cave blinked at her.

She was beaming. "Thanks for the distraction. You're very loud. Got all of their attentions. I usually have to break something to get in."

Cave was stammering, trying to find words, but that wonderfully aloof charm was like a jamming signal to his brain.

"I'm Caroline." She just took his hand and shook it without asking.

"Oh, uh," he stared at the unauthorized handshake in dismay, and managed, "nice to meet you, Caroline."

"Mrs," she corrected.

"Oh, sorry," Cave quickly went back, nervously clearing his throat, "my apologies, Mrs…? Um… Mrs…?"

"Science," she supplied the surname, or… a word where the surname should go.

"Ah, sorry, Mrs. Science," he said without thinking, and then those thoughts caught up with him. "What?"

"Science," she said again with a giggle.

"Huh?" Mr. Johnson wasn't following.

She snickered, finally laughing in full. She declared, "I'm married to Science!" She threw her arms up as if to say 'HOORAY'.

Cave squinted, and then he got it. He wagged his finger. "Clever…clever…" and he chuckled slowly.

Caroline dipped her head in a mock bow.

"I like ya' already, 'Mrs. Science'," Cave wasn't half lying there, "so, why're you here for this soiree if you're not… like the rest?"

"I was going to try and get into Black Mesa. They're not my favorite, but they have oodles of money from the government," she explained in that unassuming voice, "I thought, with a little leverage, I could start to divert assets to my life-long project."

"Life-long project?" Cave liked the sound of that.

"Yeah," but there she went again with the bashful routine.

Mr. Johnson leaned in, as if on the down-low. "Top Secret?"

"I'll tease it for a rascal like you," she played along, "it's _portal_ technology."

"Portals?" Cave blurted at a normal volume.

"Quantum tunnels," she still whispered, though, "they don't exactly obey our natural perception of continuity. Imagine if you could take two points in space…" she held her index fingers away from each other, "…and merge them on a plane?" her fingers fell one behind the other, unifying visibly. "It alters spatial continuity as we know it!"

Cave didn't exactly get it. "Ah! Like a shower curtain. You open it to get out of the shower, and you close it to…"

"No," Caroline interjected, "sorry. But, no."

"Oh," Cave shut up.

"Basically, you make two holes that connect. Like one here and then another here. And by using a particular resonance we can attune the two…" she lost him again, "…you know what? My mom always said, ' _show, don't tell_ '!" the girl gave a good swing of the arm to make her point, "I'll show you when we have a chance."

Cave's mind was on constant catch up. Wait, was he…? Was she…? Another chance…?

This was the most fascinating thing he'd heard all day.

"W-w-why are you going to Black Mesa with this?" he didn't want to lose her, "why not to Aperture Innovators?" he offered.

"Don't fret. I'm not going to Black Mesa… anymore," Caroline announced, clasping her hands. She let slip a perfectly wistful sigh.

Cave inquired, "why's that?"

"Breen." The fact was so simple.

" _Breen?_ " Now Cave was fascinated by this woman.

"Ugh," her disdain was so finely tuned. The woman's lips curled. "He's so… grossly enchanted with origins."

"Origins?" Cave really needed to brush up on his science lingo.

"Yes, as in: where mankind came from. Evolution and etc," Caroline supplied, and then turned to Mr. Johnson with an insider's approach, "but we don't care about that, do we? It's where we're going that's important."

She gestured up to the sky, smiling brilliantly, "and the only way to get there is… with portals!"

Cave blinded himself by staring directly at the sun. Caroline did too, and they both squinted at one another.

"You're absolutely right, Caroline," Cave agreed.

Wait, did she just sell portals to him?

"Hey, you know another thing?" she was eager to share this, "Breen ate a potato while he talked to me. With his hands. A whole popato! He licked his fingers! It was like watching a monkey. No wonder he likes Darwin. He could be his weird grandson."

"Yeah, that's what I've always thought," Cave was too ready to agree, chuckling as the conversation went from comfortably coincidental to freaky.

Hold on. Did… Cave himself lick his fingers? He had to be on guard. No finger-licking from now on.

"Your ideas, these portals, are too good for Black Mesa," he told her, adding, " _you're_ too good for Black Mesa."

"Thanks," she was charmed by that, smiling at him.

"I really wish you would have been able to buy that mesa," that statement got his attention, but she prattled on, oblivious, "have you seen the pictures of that place? The Black Mesa compound? It's ugly. All grimy and brown and green. All government-y. Their designer is obsessed with orange accents too. _Blech!_ " she pretended to barf.

Wait, she'd seen pictures of it? Wasn't that a secret government thing?

"No quality. No finesse. I didn't get a doctorate in fashion to have my transportation technology look like garbage," she lamented, "I could never work in such uninspiring conditions!"

"Doctorate in fashion? What…? How…?" Cave swallowed that infeasible fact. He was talking to a lady wearing purple pine cone earrings after all. "Either you're fibbing or you're not short on work ethic. Why no 'official' science gig if that's your calling?"

"Well," she started, "I'm a woman. They don't take me seriously."

"Oh." He nodded in what he hoped looked like understanding. If that were the case, her style choices didn't help in the 'serious' category much. "But that can't keep **you** down. You look like a trend-setter."

"I am, and they never have kept me down. That's how I even got into school. But then… I was forcibly failed," Caroline explained, a little more somber, "or, well, kicked out… in layman's terms."

"Kicked out?" Cave was quizzical, scratching his chin. "What for?"

"Ethics," her tone was so mundane, "you know. Safety."

"You failed from a lack of ethics and safety?" Mr. Johnson tilted his head again. "…in fashion?"

Oh, this was too good to be true.

"Yes," she confirmed, and then added rather sarcastically for herself, "most people would run by now."

And she turned dramatically as if to say 'go'.

Cave started, and couldn't stop, indignation in him, "wait a minute. You're telling me that people don't… You're the one who crawled out of a bush wearing who-knows-what to say hi to me! You have a doctorate in fashion! You apparently have developed some kind of advanced teleportation technology involving holes! You have access to government secrets and information! And you're incredibly attractive!" Mr. Johnson ended his rant by planting his feet.

He pointed at the pavers beneath his shoes. "I'm standing right here, Mrs. Science. I DON'T run. You know why? Because I like people who take risks!"

Caroline rounded and inspected Cave Johnson, her hands clasped and her form quite demure. All she said was, "interesting."

"Interesting?"

"Indeed, Mr… Johnson," she had something good up her sleeve, "it's just funny coming from the man who ran from Breen."

"I-uh… I…!" Well, he was straight up flummoxed. "That has nothing to do- How do YOU know?!"

"I know lots of things." She blinked at him.

"Fine! I _did_ run away," Cave admitted, hiding his upset with coarseness, "because if I hadn't… Breen would be a puddle. And I don't want to go down as the guy who beat up a shrimpy bureaucrat at a Potato Fair!"

"As much as a Breen puddle would be amusing… I'm glad you ran," she confided, then went on to mention, "it seems to me you're having trouble blending in with the science community."

"Well, you got me there," he relented, pocketing his hands and inspecting the tips of his shoes.

"Sounds like you need an insider," she kept on.

"I do..."

Was she doing it again?

"You need someone to bridge the gap," as she spoke she took her two fingers and aligned them once more, "between business and science."

"You know it."

She was.

"So…?" she inferred with a hand on her own chest. "You need a portal."

What?

"You've gotta be clear, Mrs. Science," Cave let her know.

"Most people are scared to take too many risks, though," she was almost taunting with that.

"Oh no. No no no. Not me. I go in, guns blazing," his bravado was in full, "'sides, Cave's too big for that sissy walk. I have grants from the Department of Defense. And I know loopholes and tricks you wouldn't believe."

Or maybe _she_ would.

"And you couldn't get in here?" that honest question hurt, especially how nicely she asked.

"Nope. Because I am not a scientist," Cave Johnson had no real comeback, so he changed subjects, "I am a business man. And I sell… shower curtains."

"Shower curtains?" Caroline's enthusiasm wasn't the highest it had been.

"Yes!" Cave responded happily.

"Oh." Caroline's clasped hands wrenched together, and her smile skewed. "That sounds great."

"It is," Cave was all declarative, selling the idea, "greatest accomplishment of my life. Aperture Fixtures: Hygienic Aqua Shields. But there's one thing: shower curtains only change so much."

"Some people find that," Caroline played along.

"I'm not gonna' stop with curtains. I'm moving onto the whole shebang. **Life** ," Mr. Johnson painted the word in the air in a sweeping gesture, "Aperture solutions for an Aperture life!"

"Hmmmm," Caroline's hum distracted Cave utterly, derailing his pitch. She then, after some consideration, concluded that, "your target is to control life by systemically infiltrating the homes of citizens with your branded devices to alter the course of history and impose our beneficial will on the populace?"

"I don't know if I followed all you said, but…" he gave it a second's thought more before answering, "yes. I like the sound of that!"

"Then it's… perfect," her sweet voice lowered a pitch at the end, and something sinister lurked.

Cave was too excited to let that bother him. "Are you…?"

"Count me in, Mr. Johnson," she reached a hand up and kept smiling that despicably adorable smile.

"You're in." Cave smirked back.

They shook on it.

"Now, tell me who and what you want," she took out a list from her sash. It unraveled like a scroll, remarkably preserved. "I have this God-forsaken popato fair memorized."

" _Popato_?" He was sorry, but he couldn't let that go.

"Potato, popato," she sing-songed, paying a mite more attention to her list than to him, "whatever…"

Cave shrugged and continued, hovering over her shoulder, "so, if a certain wealthy businessman looking to open an applied science company wanted to staff scientists, how'd he and his lovely assistant get started here?" Cave was hypothetical for no reason at all.

"Take your pick," she glanced up, telling him, "I know the arrogant, the respectable, all the sensible saints, the monsters, those audacious ones, the tenacious few, all the idiots…" she seemed put out, then lit up with terrible glee, "…and especially the _desperate ones._ "

"Yeah. This _is_ a Potato Fair…" Cave grumbled.

"Scientists get unlucky like everyone else," Caroline added.

"Well," Cave started up again, rubbing his hands together, "let's get some aggression and audacity, some useful idiots, maybe a sensible few to balance it out." His mind twirled with possible company dynamics. "Oh, you know any yes-men?" he asked eagerly.

Caroline pulled a pen out and started marking potential candidates. "Plenty."

"We are going to need a LOT of desperate ones." Cave stroked his chin.

"Oh," she understood, " _we are_."

Caroline had them all marked off, and was planning her avenues of attack. Her brain was a storm of introductions, of parlay and domination. Her simple pleasure was evident in her peppy motions.

"All right. You do your selling, your big and bold style, and just blow them away," she told him, that glint in her eyes infectious, "I'll get them on the technical details. They'll think we are the most legitimate company. I didn't get a doctorate in fashion without learning how to run a business."

"You got it, missy," Cave was beaming now too, and gave her a hearty thumbs up.

She nodded to him and started to walk forward, both finding their way out of the landscaping.

Cave was completely enraptured in watching her. That feminine gait of clueless and calm deadliness. She was cut and dried and cute.

Man, he could NOT do that.

Cave wondered how he'd approach any other scientists if they were at all like her.

She even sensed his tenseness, something never perceived in the untrained. "Don't worry about them. Those scientists…they're intelligent. But they're not crafty. They've all been kept in cushy little cubicles of the mind."

"Ah. I'll remember that," Cave was appreciative, "good analogy."

"Thank you!" She didn't look at him.

Now he had her on his side. He'd been wanting a wingman, but… a wingwoman? This was going to work out just fine.

He'd like to see Breen's face now.

"If we get the right minds, and the right ideas, we'll be unstoppable," Cave made the off comment under his breath, "I'm rich, you know."

"I know," Caroline said matter-of-factly.

Of course she knew.

"Let's go get 'em, Mr. Johnson!" They neared the doors, the gaggles of scientists in sight. "We're unstoppable already!"

She would know.

 _Caroline knew everything._


	6. Garage Gurus

Doug sat on his Aperture Science Standard Domicile bed, an air filtration mask made out of a coke bottle on one hand and the condemned shoe box on the other. He'd gotten a few scuffs from the vents, but the rest of the sojourn had been enjoyable enough. Dr. Rattmann wasn't one to shy from parkour-packed jaunts through the facility. It helped him loosen up, memorize the layout, and get some cardio in before dinner.

He glanced over to the shoe box. Doug wasn't about to just dump the pistols yet. Doug was a scrounger, which was good when dealing with expensive components and materials. It'd take a while for the pipeline to give him some of these components. He knew better. He was going to the Reclamation Station first, or in other words, Patrick's house.

He had to come prepared to the Irishman, though.

Rattmann arose and scuttled into his standardized kitchenette and raked around the pantry. He culled a half-eaten bag of Fritos and not much else that hadn't already been claimed by his metabolism. With a scowl he reached into his pant pocket and found the un-boxed, but still sealed, packet of gummy bears he'd been saving. The Fritos were an insufficient peace offering considering the pretzels weren't the only thing he'd stolen lately. Half-a-bag could never hope to cover the damages of a cannoli plucked from Patrick's hands through a vent. The younger scientist's only hope was to sacrifice the gummies… which could have been stolen themselves. He forgot.

With heart and pants heavy with the weight of snack foods lost, the lanky man began to make his way to Patrick's. He slipped out the door of his standardized Aperture Domicile, the sad cracker-box home suspended on rails like the hundreds around it. They were the reused prototypes for the extended cryostasis relaxation vault, but their design direction was 'too nice' so they designated them employee on-site housing. It worked for a lot of Aperture's employees, like the native Doug and all the others that knew it was too late to even try for a normal life. Even Cave Johnson had moved his house down into Aperture's cavernous depths long ago.

This hole in the earth _consumed_ people.

Doug's steps made the metal catwalks rattle, a disconcerting feeling when suspended over miles of nothingness. The solid-seeming concrete base suddenly ended and revealed the hollow abyss of silver-blue mists. He glanced over his shoulder, admiring the ambitious facade that made the landing for the domiciles more comfortable. It simply took new perspective to reveal this facility's lies.

All around emptiness stood, divided in cubes by massive rails and columns from which chambers hung and glided across the facility.

Beneath, around, and over his catwalk of choice pneumatic diversity vents wound. The sturdy glass and metal framed tubes carried cubes, turrets, safety cubes and all overtly simplistic and indestructible Aperture constructs to the various Sectors' test chambers.

Rattmann walked alongside the tubes. They went from one to two, then to tens… to hundreds to _thousands_ , all intertwining in helix and vein patterns. All of the tubes ran into a massive column, one that bore no perceivable end or beginning, and hooked inside of it. The column was the support of a great bellowing pump nested inside its rusting depths. The pump was as big as a manor and the tone of old eggshells. Their coils heaved such vast amounts of air it was hard to quantify.

He ascended the catwalk's stairs, and the deafening rumble of thousands of diversity vents vibrated his diaphragm. It became near intolerable when he drew even with the pump, so he scampered quickly out of range. The tubes converged and fanned out, looping networks that fed into various ledges reading 'Turret Production Line' and 'Cube Production Line'. Doug followed the catwalks along the Cube route, his form passing through the patches of darkness free of the fluorescent overheads.

The further from where humans normally dwelt the darker the facility became. Soon, only an orange glow ebbed from maintenance lights, giving the interior an organic aura.

Doug was entering the entrails of the beast, or less artistically, the parts meant to be unseen.

The circular swatches of powder pink and blue shone from the cubes as they ricocheted off the tube interiors. Each was a battle-hardened construct, tested and freed into the rest of the facility.

Doug bypassed the Cube testing area, taking the maintenance shaft down further still. Soon, the abyss was crowded with more concrete levels and rusting walls. He crept past the breaker room and the vaults stacked to their brims with old paint cans.

Troughs of salvaged computer parts and tubs of discarded pipes, fixtures, and even a bin of old shower curtains, decorated the hall. The corridor was almost claustrophobic compared to the openness before, slowly leaning and bending in to brush Doug's lab coat. Finally, the winding, ruddy passage fanned into what had to have been an old missile silo.

Doug had at first been puzzled as to why they would even construct a missile silo so far beneath the surface. And then he had noticed the portal-able surface above the shaft.

Oh, wait. He remembered.

He loved the diagram on the wall of the chamber lock. It depicted the rocket flying through a portal, then out the other side, which happened to be the moon, all the way back down to earth to its target.

For obvious reasons, the project was scrapped.

Of course the silo was inhabited. Doug stood in the center, admiring the curio cabinets, all of warm stained woods that presented their collections like inviting market stalls. The person who lived in the silo was the sort with spoon collections, thimble collections, porcelain pieces put on display, postcards, and mementos of all kinds carpeting the walls. Tchotchkes lined every unused surface, each glimmering in a unique and mundane fashion, from carnival glass to cheap production Aperture trinkets. The walls were adorned with the posters dating from the current era to the 40s, the smiling faces of hand-painted Olympians slowly transitioned to the blank, black, simplistic figure of a person, nicknamed _Bendy_. Banners languished between the rising support banisters of the silo, the garlands and flags swaying gently from the soft flow of air. There were strings of yellowed lights framing certain well-used doors, like the bathroom and the bedroom compartment.

Saw-horses, buzz-saws, a drill press, a laser cutter, and every other ingenious tool were crammed within the silo floor. A large island with a measurement mat took center stage, and Doug couldn't help but ogle the engine casually lying on top of a soiled mattress in the corner. Whoever lived there really didn't mind stepping on shavings of any sort as this was the impromptu carpet of the silo. The main paths were relatively clean, but the rest of the silo shop was a war-zone of half-finished business.

Doug came to the bedroom door, kindly denoted 'BEDROOM - STAY AWAY' by a painted over ceramic sign, and stood just outside. He breathed in, drinking up the aroma that was a missile silo turned flea market, and then decided to make himself known.

"Patrick?" Doug screamed at the door. It didn't quite carry. "PAT!" he hollered, but the call just didn't have the right ring. Doug braced himself, "PATTIE PATTIE EGGS MCFATTY!" he cried until it hit the top of the silo.

"What's the password?" came a muffled request.

Doug slipped the bag of gummies in the mail slot of the door.

The sound of hands grubbing up the package was emitted from the room. Doug just pictured the Irishman ripping the bag open with his teeth, sniffing the gummies. He'd give a tentative lick, and then eat a sample gummie to verify if the peace offering was sufficient.

Patrick cracked the door.

The ritual was complete.

He stuck his head out, golden locks a frazzled mess. He had a very puzzled and squint look to him, his care-lines in full today.

"You're killin' me!" He blinked, groggy. "But… I guess ya can stay… these are the good gummies."

Doug smiled. "Only the best for the resident spoon collector."

The Irishman receded with an accusing frown. "Sure, go ahead. Laugh. But every spoon's-"

"-got a story," Doug supplied, "I know, Patrick. I know you love your spoons."

"Says Mr. Vent Racer!" came the angry retort from deep inside.

Doug answered, talking over the many drawers opening and shutting within, "vent racing is an ancient art!"

Patrick snorted, "in _video games_ …"

"Also _art_ ," Doug remarked.

A pause was allowed, and then a great, " _pffffft_!" came from the bedroom.

Patrick was pulling his pants up as he emerged, zipping the fly. He didn't even have a shirt on.

Dr. Rattmann inquired in a humored, studious tone, "any reason you're asleep in the middle of the daylight work shift, Mr. McGillicutty?"

Patrick jutted his lip, scratching at his stomach. "Was gettin' me some rest before I'm off to the macro-livestock farm."

"The Bioengineering Department in Sector K?" Doug was genuinely curious now, following Patrick as the man pulled a shirt from between a gas can and a stack of ramen noodle packets.

"Yeah," Patrick explained nonchalantly, beating the wood-shavings off the shirt, "some core's made a banjax of the chicken feed line. Chicken feed flyin' all over. Chickens flyin' after the feed. Mass chaos."

"Sounds urgent?" Doug inquired, clutching the shoe box.

"Bah. They're just chickens," Patrick waved him off as he wrangled his body into the shirt, "man-sized chickens."

Doug quirked a brow. The shirt read ' _Craicalackin_ '.

"It can wait, so," Patrick brushed the matter off, much more interested in Doug's cargo. "That's what made ya give up the gummies?"

Doug's other eyebrow shot up. "ASHPPDDs," he answered, "portal pistols."

Patrick whistled. "What's wrong with 'em?"

"They almost caused a black hole. Like… uh, _aherm_ ," Doug coughed on cue, scrunching up considerably.

The Irishman tipped his head, looking down his up-turned nose. "… like Sector L?" He took a moment to guilt-trip Doug, "apparently Pat's sector must not be that important?"

"Sorry," Doug gave the perfunctory response, before cutting to the chase, "I was wanting to use the Reclamation Station, specifically the suppression chamber. That should contain any resonance implosions."

" _Should_ ," Patrick echoed askance and went on to say, "you want me suppression chamber so you can… salvage these things for parts, and jeopardize the whole place when ya crack open that housing? Ya do know it's standard protocol to just incinerate the things?"

Doug pursed his lips, odd-eyes diverted.

Patrick scathed the younger scientist, crossing his arms and giving him that awful patronizing eye. "Why not wait for another from the engineering department? They know what they're doing."

"You know how it is with the engineers. They don't just hand these components out. It's expensive, Pat!" Doug protested, raising the shoe box to make his point. "These things are worth more per gun than the organs and combined incomes-"

" _-of everyone in Carrickfergus._ " Patrick was non-plussed. "I know."

"Even IF they agreed to produce another…" Doug twitched a bit, muttering, "it…takes… forever… to manufacture these."

Patrick rolled his eyes, picking a water-spider off his shirt and flicking it aside. "You're cute."

Doug didn't take kindly being talked down to. Minding the spider scurrying around now, he stepped forward.

"This place is literally made out of flammable, deadly materials and you freak out over my ASHPPDDs! My geo-harmonic revival will change the course of quantum tunneling!" he took this stand, "you probably already have some incurable disease by now and don't even know it."

"Oh, ya gotta' bring that up now?" Patrick sighed, "asbestos is bad. It's terrible. But you got two stinkin' black holes in yer hands! Connected over _Wi-Fi_."

Doug clamored over the inconsistency, "it's a _Quantum Reciprocating Portage Actualizer!_ Not Wi-Fi!"

"You all are callin' it Wi-Fi." Patrick splayed his arms.

Doug summoned a term, gesticulating, "metaphorical shorthand!"

"Stop hiding behind yer brain, Doug!" Patrick blustered.

"What does THAT mean?"

Patrick shrugged.

"Just help me salvage this stuff," Doug asked, and without an answer made for where he knew the suppression chamber was, wading over several stacks of CDs.

"Right. Right. Sure thing, Dougo," Patrick strolled after him, turning on the lights for Doug as he scrambled over a disused refrigerator and fell off, landing upon a few toilets. He scrambled out of the toilets and through a pile of broken panels into a vent hole.

Patrick took the long, but cleared out, path. He waited on the other end, smirking as the scientist poked his ruffled and slightly-dustier-than-before head out.

"Does that make you feel better?" Patrick inquired, "the vent crawling?"

"I saw a direct route and…" Doug was off explaining, and then it struck him, "how did _you_ get here so fast?"

"By walking," the maintenance worker suggested, "you should try it."

Doug squinted, and then wriggled himself out of the vent, landing in a crouch. He pulled the shoe box out of his pants, checking it over for any aberrations.

Patrick made a face at that. "Where did you…?"

"My pants have never fit me," Doug was a bit defensive.

Patrick nodded. "Alright, baggybottom…"

He watched the scientist amusedly. Doug darted into a room, realized it wasn't the right room, and darted back out, head on a swivel.

"It's over here, Dougo," the Irishman whistled, "you don't have to scurry around all the time."

Doug hesitated, wanting to say something, but just kept on, letting Patrick hold the door for him. They entered a rather musty concrete space, smelling of paint chemicals and other more nefarious odors.

The ventilation shafts' fans threw shadows over the entrance, their lazy rotations more than a little ominous. Doug strolled over the yellow and black lines, drawing upon the suppression chamber. He set down the shoe box, asking Patrick, "hey, do you mind pulling out the bed?"

"Why not?" Patrick waltzed over to the control panel, giving a lever a good crank. The suppression chamber rumbled to life, the vibrations echoing against the concrete and steel walls. "Let's get those Sector eaters in the belly of the beast." He ratcheted down another lever, the suppression chamber's mechanical base shifting as a bed lurched out from the hatch.

Doug gave the machine a concerned scowl.

A beast it was, as this suppression chamber dominated the room. The several swivel chairs and human interfaces were dwarfed by this metal cylinder supported on columns of bolted iron. The low ruddy lights served a foreboding mood, and the singe marks within the chamber's belly bespoke of many calamities that were contained within. The looming barrel was a blessing, worth its weight for every crisis it had averted. Still, the red and yellow operation lights upon it leered like beady eyes, and as anything in Aperture, you weren't quite sure if it was living or inert.

Well, at least Doug was sure it wasn't alive.

"First, I have to…" Rattmann fussed with the shoe box, bending it and twisting at it to get it undone. Greg had really laid on the duct tape. "…get them out of…" he grunted, looking to gnaw on the thing, "…their prison."

Patrick kindly sidestepped and handed him his pocket-knife. Doug took it in hand and meticulously flipped out the blade, making doubly sure it was locked out, and then began to carefully cut away from himself on the box.

A few pain-staking minutes later Patrick got his knife back, and the pistols were freed from their imprisonment.

"Those are adorable," the maintenance worker teased the scientist as he peeked inside, "if they weren't dangerous ya could sell 'em to kids!"

Doug gave him a look, setting the shoe box in his grasp. Patrick smiled at the scientist and plopped the shoe box on the bed.

"Be careful!" Doug reached out tentatively.

"I will, _mom_ ," the maintenance worker answered, "ya _did_ put 'em in yer pants."

He picked up the pistols and gingerly handled them. "Is there any reason they're wet, Doug?" he sounded a might less alarmed than he should have, "am I going to die now?"

"Wet? Why would…?" Doug scrunched his nose, leaning over the shoe box. "Oh," he realized with disgust, "Greg."

"Greg what?" Patrick demanded.

The scientist's face was screwed up. "He licked them."

"Greg spit?!" Patrick took his cue to be revolted. " _Of all the occupational work hazards! Blech!_ " He tried to wipe his hand off on Doug, but he evaded.

"Be careful!" Rattmann griped at the maintenance worker. "Those aren't toys!"

"Ugh, it's just so _gross… Why_?" Patrick took out a shop towel from his pocket and pulled the pistol out as if it were a live piranha. "Why did he…?"

Doug had to interject, "don't wipe all the spit off. I think it helps connectivity!"

"Why would GREG'S SPIT help your PORTAL PISTOL with its WI-FI CONNECTION?"

Doug shrunk back, kneading his fingers. "Hunch?"

Patrick saw the impact of his harsh words, and a an odd mood overtook him. "Didn't mean to bite yer head off," he calmed himself, "it's just really unnecessary. Greg spit."

"Maybe that's what neurotoxin's made out of?" Doug wondered idly.

Patrick snickered at that as he went about his work.

The maintenance worker snapped up the article holders on the bed, adjusting them to meet the dimensions of the tiny pistols. He did exhibit care, the article holders near-perfectly calibrated. Once the saliva-coated pistols were set in their holders, touching to one another at their bases, he stepped away. Proud of the fit, he retreated to the control panel, and flipped the bed lever back. The machine shivered, and the bed slid into the 'belly' of the chamber on gleaming pistons. The dark cylinder was suddenly brightly illuminated by the operation lights and those perfect white shells of the portal pistols glistened within its deep ruddy interior.

Or maybe it was the spit glistening.

The maintenance worker cleared and accessed the internal manipulator interface. The archaic screen lit up, diagnostics on the conditions inside displayed with shocking precision, and the control sticks loosened. He gave one a tentative input, and within the chamber a remote arm jolted to life. Doug bit his lip, alarmed by the jerking motions of the arm as Patrick tested it out.

"Hey," Doug mentioned, cautious in tone, "don't you want an outsourced core to help you operate this?"

"Outsourced core? It's only needless!" Patrick brushed off his concern, succoring, "I know this rig like the-" as he said this the arm within took a wild sweep at lightning speed, narrowly missing a collision with the portal pistols.

Doug's eyes went wild. "STOP."

Patrick took a step back. "They're a bit testy today," he offered an excuse, "that's all." He coughed and wiped his mouth on his collar.

"Right," Doug took his cue to be skeptical, "I'm going to call up DaRMA."

"Ach, of course, the machine'll do it better," Patrick protested lamely.

The scientist used the information he'd memorized of Patrick's and wormed his way into the maintenance system. He typed out a call for the personality sphere, and the request didn't take long to be processed by Aperture's DaRMA, the Demolitions and Reclamation Management Android. Her name flashed on the golden screen, followed by a line stating 'request queued, please wait'.

Their queue popped with a ping from the chamber's blown-out systems, and suddenly the eerie room was blanketed with a warm (and _radical_ ) tone, "how's it groovin', my sweet rat and sour clover?"

Doug and Patrick shared a glance of intimidation.

"Hey, DaRMA," they chorused with uncertainty.

"Now," she hummed along, either unaware of their trepidation or unaffected, and asked, "what do you two cats need from this garage guru?"

Doug coughed, bringing forth the matter at hand, "I need you to help us disassemble these highly volatile custom made ASHPDs. Specifically the Aperture Science Handheld Portal Pistol Duel Devices. ASHPPDDs."

"Do ya have to say it ALL every time?" Patrick griped in the background.

"OK, moonchild, I'll need a schematic to go by," she told Doug. Her voice was only brushed with a metallic edge, one of Aperture's better vocal synthesizers for a personality construct. She requested of Patrick, "why don't you pull that up for me, sunchild?"

Patrick winced at that nickname, complying. Unfortunately, no one knew DaRMA's creation date with certainty, but what they did know for certain was that she was old and she was sweet as could be, unlike many personality constructs. You couldn't tell a grandmabot you hated her pet names.

The Irishman accessed the repository of schematics, entering in ASHPPDD. With a little guidance from Doug on the current version, they selected the correct set.

"Thanks, man," she chimed when the schematics were sent, and then hummed a mellow melody as she processed it, pouring over the gun's specifications until she understood the contraption. "I'm digging these pistols. Downer that they're flaky."

"I think I comprehended that," Doug sounded a mite astonished, "so… thanks, DaRMA. It is a… downer, indeed."

Patrick nodded his head. "Can you imagine havin' those? It'd be like a western. Like cowboys and shite!"

"Right on. They'd look cute on you, Pattie," the computer cooed, and suddenly it was a lot less cool.

Doug smiled at that. "But… they did nearly implode the Officially Unofficial Presidential Headquarters."

"Get out!" DaRMA exclaimed.

"With the President inside," Doug smiled wanly.

Patrick whistled.

"Now that's a wicked portal. No wonder you want them stripped down," she concluded with a quiet, "now this is the Reclamation Station, sweet rat. What are you wanting to reclaim? This seems way risky."

"I _must_ extract the geologic sound permeation disk," Doug announced, "it is a vital element!" but someone was quick to question his claim.

"More like he doesn't wanna' wait on the engineers to make him a new one," the Irishman said.

Rattmann turned on Patrick, narrowing his eye and twitching a bit. "Do you know how long it takes? They don't make geo-harmonic hybrids! Not like me."

"Don't you mean," Patrick supplied, "modify geologic sound permeation disks to the point of bein' on the verge of failing all the time?"

"HEY!"

DaRMA intervened, "mellow out!" and the two snapped their attentions to the chamber as it's arms gestured calmly, "now, Doug, child, enlighten me on this geologic sound permeation disk. Why is it the crux?"

The scientist caught his breath, straightening his back, "the chemical reaction between the geologic sound permeation disk and geo-harmonic stimulant is the driving force of the portal! My disk is closest to matching the original template stone that…"

Patrick scrutinized him.

"Huh?" she responded. "What's so important about that?"

The scientist was about to jump out of his coat. "It is a specially formulated disk of the original supra-sonic conductor! We've been trying to properly synthesize the stone since… _since portals existed_."

"Doug, child…" the construct knew where this was heading, "take it easy. What does this geologic sound permeation disk do?"

He grasped at something for the laymen, anything, "the... the geologic sound permeation disk is the powerhouse of the portal gun?"

Patrick shrugged to DaRMA.

Rattmann paced, muttering to himself. And then, suddenly, he had it, a declarative finger shooting into the air. "It is the rock that the acid makes barf out a portal!" he announced. "Wait…" that didn't make sense to him. "Hold on, that's not-"

"Oh," the realization struck DaRMA, the realization she didn't understand, "…so that's how… you portal…?"

"By barfing?" Patrick tilted his head.

"Merely a demonstration in words," Doug skewed his smile, a bit dubious, "I would need a visual demonstration to teach you two, I think. You see, that's merely the reaction to spontaneously create enough energy to forge the spatial gap. Like the spatial vortexes through which a quantum tunnel navigates."

"What?" the Irishman was lost again.

DaRMA was quick to console him in that warm tone, "he's just using technobabble, clover."

Patrick sighed heavily, grumbling something about 'clover' being racist. His lament was ended partway by Doug's curious shuffling around the floor. Rattmann was crouched, scouring the baseboards for something. He poked around, and then with a noise of satisfaction, plucked… an object… off the ground. It looked like trash to the Irishman.

"Imagine this dust bunny, if you will, as an stand-in for a quantum mechanical model," Doug cajoled, but he felt the deadpan reigning, "I… well, it's an atom, OK?"

"I need to sweep," Patrick observed.

"Use your imagination, man," DaRMA told him with a calm, loving tone, "moonchild is getting in his groove."

"Thank you, DaRMA," the scientist was very agreeable, and then with sobriety continued, "this…" he figured out what the center of the dust bunny was, "…this _old raisin_ is the nucleus of the atom. The rest is the electron cloud. See how the dust bunny presses against my hand, and how it spills through my fingers?"

"I'm not blind," Patrick watched him with skepticism.

DaRMA answered with less ire, the suppression chamber cameras leaning out and focusing on Doug, "oh, I do. It's fuzzing on through."

"Aha! Yes," Doug kept going, a manic glee on his face as he explained it, "so, at this moment, when it is threading, the reaction formed from the geologic sound permeation disk generates such a quantum momentum the harmonic stimulant almost infallibly generates a quantum tunnel!"

"That sounds righteous," DaRMA said, "whatever that was that you said."

"The, uh," Doug flapped his hands around, truly fixated on explaining portals to a hippie and maintenance worker, "the little stringy things inside harmonize with the composition of the portal-able surface. They… jive through the… the, ah… hmm." The scientist grumbled, his chin resting on his fist, brows knotting.

"Dougo, this isn't time for studyin'," Patrick pressed, "we might be stuDYING soon."

"Oh!" Doug had another one, not listening a lick, "the reaction of the geo-harmonic disk creates a volatile spectra-material harmonic rift! By using these frequencies we can easily forge the potential barrier. Thus, a quantum tunnel is born!" He panned to them, expectant of their realizations.

"Sounds like bullocks." Patrick was done, walking back to the control pane.

Doug gave DaRMA's cameras a deadpan stare.

"Clover, you don't have to hate," DaRMA tutted electronically, "there's no need to blow up on your brother."

"I am a grown man!" the maintenance worker resisted, fecklessly, as ever, "and I am not a clover! For feck's sake!"

"PATRICK," DaRMA's voice rose a level, and both quieted, so her voice lowered, ominously relaxed, "don't make me come down there."

They smiled skittishly at that threat, both well aware of her main chassis and what an _entity_ it was. Unlike the average grandmother she was also a giant robot that could crush up to eight men simultaneously.

No one messed with her.

"Sorry, Doug," Patrick was obligated to the apology, "you… tried."

"It's OK," Doug waved him off professionally, "you'd have to graduate to understand."

"Och!"

DaRMA heaved a synthetic sigh. " _Doug…_ "

The scientist grinned and scampered toward another console on the suppression chamber.

"We're extracting the geologic sound permeation disk, right, moonchild? What about the housing? You labeled every part of this as volatile." Poor DaRMA was looking at the schematic, turning it over in her numerical mind as she scanned the pistols. "Even the part where you hold it?"

"Actually, those are levels of volatility," Rattmann was apt to correct. "The higher the level, the more volatile."

"It's like paint by numbers, but only… paint by _danger_ …" she breathed out. "Did somebody lick these?"

Patrick chuckled.

DaRMA worked through the problem on her own time, linearly, rather than breakneck processing speeds. "OK, I think I have a path for this extraction, man."

"Good. Just, be careful," Doug worried, "the geologic sound permeation disk can be tricky to isolate in that the turkey baster-"

"Turkey baster?" Patrick blurted.

"-technically known as the reaction prompter…" the scientist clarified for him, "…is so finely tuned that the most minor human error can set off an unintended reaction during the extraction. An unconfined reaction leads to a portal with only natural boundaries."

"And I figure that's how we'd all die," the Irishman concluded.

"Yes," Doug nodded to him, "if that happens we run for our lives and hope the chamber holds." He shrugged to punctuate. "It probably won't happen, but then again, Sector L and Caroline's house disappeared somehow."

"That's wonderful." Patrick bobbed his brow as he drummed his fingers on the console.

Doug turned to the suppression chamber, confident for once. "I requested you, DaRMA, because you're so… _**mellow**_ ," he gave her his approval, a rare sighting. "The trick to this is utter focus. Meditation. You're comfortable with that, I think."

"Aw, thank you, sweet rat," she was doubly touched. "They don't call me a mellow fellow for no reason."

Doug dipped his head. "They sure don't."

Patrick's eyes widened as he nodded along.

"Let's work some magic," her voice started to slur even then, and she slipped into a calmer state of being. The ascension of senses seemed to be electronically induced. "Here I go…" her voice dipped into the male vocal ranges at that speed, "meditation activated."

She was in a higher state of computing.

The suppression chamber's manipulator arms arose, softly, as if on cushions of air. The delicate and precise dance of their pincer grips mesmerized as they worked about the bodies of the pistols. First, the white shieldings came off, and then she chose to remove the tri-tonal prongs and the dispenser apertures.

"So old woman Caroline blew up her house?" Patrick started out of nowhere.

"Blew up?" Doug's attention was rudely torn from death on sticks. "Implode, actually. The miniature black hole she created got unstable. So, yeah. She imploded her house."

A manipulator dipped into the gun's understructure, disconnecting the wires with slight clicks. The other arm gingerly coiled the cording, setting it on a holding ledge within the chamber.

Doug thought to ask, "why?"

"It's hilarious!" Patrick nudged Doug, and he resisted sliding as if his life depended on it, which it really did. "C'mon!" the Irishman wasn't concerned about exploding, contrarily to his complaints. "There's got be more of a story."

"Yeah, yeah, there is," he answered. Sometimes Doug forgot Patrick was around in the 80's. He'd worked under Caroline, hadn't he? It'd be like him to want tales of an old, deceased boss.

Talking about her also seemed like a fitting thing to do when disassembling a couple of portal guns.

The scientist forced himself to not fret over the destruction of his work and so he embellishing rather, "so, the story. Well, it was a beautiful week, perfect for gardening. Caroline was in the basement working on what would become the ASHPD. While she was doing science, her snotty family decided to go off on a vacation… without her."

"Caroline?" Patrick inquired, incredulous, "their daughter?"

"Yeah. They thought she was a witch; from another world. It was all because she did science. Odd science. That just wasn't done. It wasn't proper for a young lady like her, especially in such a family. They cared less and less for her the more obstinate she got about her life choice," Rattmann snorted, "so they decided it'd be a great idea to leave her all by herself for a week, that way the family could relax without worrying about the basement witch."

Patrick clucked his tongue, watching DaRMA's sluggish work. It was hypnotizing, really, to see the actuators pulling the pistons of the arms so slow and silkily. The feat was hard to imagine for such an old suppression chamber, but DaRMA was their hippie wonder, after all. She had the internal structure of the pistols laid bare, all periphery stripped and laid aside in neat deposit banks. Now, she had the quantum chambers, or rather the modified Micro Black Hole containment tunnels, exposed.

"So, they have their grand old time on Boblo Island, plenty of memories Caroline-free, and waltz back to their manor, and what do they find?" Doug's story kept rolling, "well, the garden looked fabulous, but there was no house. None. They find Caroline just sitting in the driveway holding… something."

"I broke the Miniature Black Hole Cooling Fan," DaRMA informed him, and true to her statement the fan was certainly off.

Patrick jumped up, "ack! Ya need to replace the batteries!" He pulled out some aa batteries. "It'll explode if-"

"That's all right," Rattmann placed a firm hand on the maintenance worker's shoulder, "my geo-harmonic hybrid isn't coolant dependent. It is coolant _aided_!"

"Oh," DaRMA mulled it over, a slothful tone saying, "I hope that it's a good thing, man."

"It is," he clarified, "it means it's not going to overheat if you look at it funny."

"OK, brothers," she went back to the guns, asking in that slow and deep voice, "now what else went down with this Caroline chick and that house?"

"Oh! Yeah," Doug got back to the story, "anyway, their house? It's gone. There's just a big hole in the yard, surrounded by the healthiest hydrangeas you've ever seen. The family asks her where their house is, and she says, _'_ _ **oh, it's right here!**_ _'_ " Doug held up his palm as if he were her, smiling even as she would, albeit nowhere near as pretty. "And they're obviously confused. She tells them that the cubic ball is their home, compacted by a spatial implosion that happened when she was out gardening. They don't even know what to say. They all just stand there, gaping at her and this tiny ball that is their home."

"Serves 'em right." Patrick grinned.

Doug snickered to himself, "her father was so angry, he almost had an aneurysm. He left and went to the city for a week, he was so mad. He sent telegrams back, too, detailing how upset he was."

"What an arse!"

"His lectures went like this," Doug began to impersonate him, " _Your ding-batty SCIENCE has cost us our whole home! I hope you're satisfied with your reckless conduct, little Caroline!'"_ Doug really had the impersonation down, _"You should go and make me a sandwich! No one needs quantum tunnels! We need RUGGED MANLY time-tested things, like… like taxes and-and cigars! And STEAK. Lots of steak! Oh, I could just… roll myself up in steak, like a steak burrito. But with me inside, so it's manly!_ "

"I'd say most of that is just you comin' up with it on the spot?" Patrick gauged.

Doug pursed his lips, shrugging humorously, "you'd be surprised. That was censored."

"Poor girl," the Irishman commented, gravity affecting his tone. "You… do know a lot about Caroline, though."

Doug smiled feverishly, scratching at his scalp. "Well… she was… the mother… of modern portal technology."

"I'm glad you two cats are diverting yourselves," DaRMA's smooth tone rolled across the echoing room, "but I'm going for the geologic sound permeation disk."

"Excuse me. I nearly died once today," Doug asked for some understanding, tongue-in-cheek.

"Ach, that's nothin'! I've been harrowed at least three times already, and I haven't even been to the macro-livestock farm!" Patrick leaned into Doug, staring into his odd eyes. "Have you ever fought a _giant_ chicken? With YER BARE HANDS?!"

"I _am_ dead," DaRMA trumped them both.

They paused their stand-off, blinking at the direction from which her voice emanated. They shared a few glances.

The construct let the mood drift to foreboding.

"Just kidding," she giggled lethargically, a faint metallic cast to it, "now, I'm going to slip both disks out simultaneously. And if I did this all right, then you two are not gonna' be imploded. But if not… toodles, dudes."

"Why are we even in this room…?" Patrick wondered aloud and much too late, "couldn't this be done entirely remotel-"

"Shhhh!" Doug had him hold his tongue for the delicate moment.

The manipulator arms hovered directly above the portal pistols, the claws opening gently. They descended, and Doug's odd eyes scoured the pistons, hoping not a catch or tremor disturbed them. The disk harnesses were removed, the cusp of the disks gleaming in the light. The soft edge of the manipulators pressed with the right percentage of power, affirming friction on the disks.

Breath held, Rattmann crouched and observed.

The manipulator pulled the disks up, micrometer by micrometer, and as the disks were moved, the reaction between them and their housings where the micro black holes were kept began to change. The disks, of a murky purple and green chameleon, began to vibrate; to hum. The pitches were ascending quickly, shifting from low to high.

The sound crescendoed until the suppression chamber's bolted iron base trembled like clay. And then, to Doug's ear, the most fascinating anomaly he heard. They were harmonizing! It was near unbearable to hear, but they were!

Unfortunately, the pull of the micro black holes began to affect the pistols, jerking them, warping them from within. The remaining parts holding them were curling up, wilting to the will of gravity.

Too many anomalies to track rushed him.

The trembling, subtle once, now rumbled their bodies and the entire section of concrete and steel. Fear, primitive, crept up their shaking bones.

A shimmering burst later, and the room was normal again, almost as if one's ears had popped. The disks were both free of their housing and the black holes had diminished to naught. The disks hung there in the delicate grips of the manipulators as if nothing had occurred.

Patrick pursed his lips, cocking his head to one side, then the other. "That's it?"

Doug glanced up at him, still crouched. He ran his long fingers over his face and through his mop of hair, smiling. "Yeah. That's it."

Patrick shrugged. "Not the worst thing I've been through…" he rated it on his scale of horrifying events in Aperture, "a three out of ten. Just because of the possibility of implodin' an' all."

Now that the pistols were devoid of their micro black holes, the metal and periphery weren't dangerous, but were in fact some of the most inert and un-dangerous pieces of equipment in Aperture. The coat of Greg spit tampered with that appraisal, but then again, who knew what else the assistant had licked?

"Thanks, DaRMA!" the scientist called up to the receptors. "Hey, would you place the geologic sound permeation disks into these cannisters?" Dr. Rattmann supplied them out of his other pant pocket. "I want them sealed after all the trouble you went through."

"Lay them down, child."

She popped out the bed, beckoning. Doug scooted over, unscrewing them, and he carefully sat them down, open-ends up. The bed retracted back into the belly of the chamber, and there she gently lowered the disks into the geologic preservation fluids. She used her manipulators to screw the tops back on, and then popped the bed back out.

Doug grabbed the cannisters, giving the machine's cameras a grin.

"Thanks! Really," Doug tried to curb his glee, "this is going to make the next iteration so much easier."

" _Next_ iteration?" Patrick spoke up.

"I'm so glad I could help, moonchild," DaRMA was so warm she'd melt someone.

"Well, it's been a gas, but I'm going to have to get going…" DaRMA told them breezily, "apparently something is going down at the the Bioengineering Department and it is the thing. Everyone is talking… and laughing."

Patrick suddenly appeared oblivious, picking at his belt loops.

"Giant chickens are apt to cause… very interesting situations," Doug remarked, eying the maintenance worker.

DaRMA asked of them, "could you be real cool and clear out this chamber, guys? I have to fly."

The Irishman raised his hand, waving a bit. "I got it. You go on."

"Thanks, sunchild. I'll catch you two cats later, all right?" she signed off, giving them the auditory 'wink'.

"Bye, DaRMA," the two men bid her farewell, sounding rather childish in their chorus.

Her presence receded. The cameras retracted and the lights dimmed back to a burnt orange and the entire suppression chamber powered down, leaving the room incredibly quiet.

Doug turned to Patrick, his pockets bulged with the cannisters. The Irishman gave the pockets a sidelong glance as he moved to the suppression chamber's opened bay. He grabbed the shoe box, stuffing the duct tape inside, and proceeded to start shoveling the bits of discarded portal pistol inside.

He rattled the contents until they settled, plopping the lid on top and tossing it to Doug. "Here ya' go."

"Thanks, Patrick," Doug responded, "so… let's say I just-"

The Irishman's phone began to ring, the volume turned up so that Patrick could hear, and nothing could be heard over it, like Doug. The scientist sighed.

"A minute, Dougo." Patrick slid his phone out of the holster, scowling even before he put the receiver to his ear. "McGillicutty," he answered, "who's it?"

His scowl grew insufferable.

"All right, all right," Patrick cut the squealing voice on the phone off, "I'll be over."

He ended the call and heaved a sigh to Doug. "They called _Virgil_. Said it took me too long. Now I gotta' fish a core out of a giant chicken's nest."

Doug covered a smirk with his coat sleeve.

Patrick's scowl was tightly affixed and wasn't coming off soon. " _Virgil,_ " he said in disdain.

"Well, Doug," he got back to matters, "looks like you're going to have to go to the Article Deliquesce Repository on yer own," he told the scientist, "it's on the right, down a couple vitrified doors. Should be an open air catwalk and some support columns. You always remember colors, so… you'll see the yellow safety grating."

"Oh, OK," Rattmann answered, fidgeting with his feet, "I guess I'll get going?"

" _Stupid cores…_ " Patrick grumbled under his breath as he went to the door, opening it and taking a left, walking back down the hall to the silo, " _replacing our jobs… mockery o'the passed on…_ "

Needless to say, Patrick didn't like cores. He'd seen Aperture go from having a magnitude of human workers to having a mostly robotic labor class.

"See you after, Dougo," Patrick told him as the scientist took a left, heading for the Article Deliquesce Repository. "Don't work too hard!" He waved casually.

"I'll try not to," Doug smiled farewell sardonically, ducking his head as he turned and scurried down the hardly lit hall.

The company hung onto Patrick from sentimental value and his expertise. Yet, it was fact that maintenance cores like Virgil were to replace Patrick, and like DaRMA had shown, they already did his job better.

Doug could imagine the bitter taste of it.

What if they decided to replace _him, Douglas Rattmann,_ with a robot?

"Nah."

There weren't robots smart enough for that!


	7. Liar Liar

Henry woke up, and he was falling.

" _You were right, Douglas. I sure do have sucker's luck."_

Down the incinerator chasm he raced, encompassed by plates of steel and spike. The thousands of glistening points shone to him like stars in a blanket of deep space.

He was on his way down, down the pipe, into the furnace. Orange began to soak into the sides of the tunnel, and heat rose calmly, swiftly, blasting him with a fervid will. The pit opened like an esophagus, yawning to digest its dead.

His future was in the pit.

He hit the bottom. Solidly. But his body didn't splatter or crackle, rather, it absorbed the fall, denting. The heat began to warp his frame immediately. Sans legs, sans arms, sans a body, Henry… understood what he was.

The flames washed out his vision, and he felt rubber begin to spill down his curved sides. Thankfully, he was perched upon a precipice of not yet melted panel panes and turret frames. His white eye's flashlight illuminated the darkening space above the inferno.

The beam of light painted the massive infrastructure… his optic gliding over the details.

 _GLaDOS_.

The white disks were sunken into the molten pool, her beveled plating turning to brown cracked with cherry veins. Dark cables spanned the space, each a fiery line, traversing and coiling, clumping in knots. Her body was submerging, like a ship consumed by the waves, her core and emotional interface succumbing to the incinerator's hunger.

He watched her shell be reclaimed until she was naught but a discolored pool within the incinerator's pit. Flames danced above the liquids, tongues raised high in delight. He wondered at the phenomena, even as his wires began to short out and his sensors began to deteriorate.

The flames convulsed and twisted, their hottest points sparking blues, greens, and whites. In the depths of the fire, his camera picked up a shape. The camera was static, blurring, losing fidelity, but he understood… that figure.

 _Caroline._

There was no word, and not one syllable to say. The corona wavered, the figure silently watched as his plates melted away.

Henry kept his focus on her, though his pistons and frame sagged and turned to sludge. All the processors were shot, and his camera… was it even on at all?

Still, he could see her, features emblazoned in the tones of a conflagration. And through this eye, an eye without sensor or cone, he could see others. A host was rising up out of flame. Her, then two more, then three, then forty, a hundred, thousands… a sea of men and women alight in the image of fire…

…alight in the belly of Aperture.

The heat had him too. His metal was melted, oozing down into the panels, dripping down the sides and joining the mass of molten metal from whence it came.

The last thing to go was the canister round, where the data for a Genetic Life-form resided. The dark boxes' ebony side couldn't last forever, entropy took care of this. But even so, it was built with an eternity of service in mind.

Without an eye, a speaker, or an receptor, he was still aware. He was still there, in the darkness. He could feel nothing save the twinge of heat and the pressing of his own fear, his whole self clamoring against the sides of the canister.

 _Let me out._

The wish was granted. The canister cracked, and the hot air rushed in, dissolving all that was within.

But in reality, that is to say, _the real world_ , Henry only slid backwards a couple of feet… (Probably only one foot, if things were honest) and started himself awake.

He laid there for a while in a pathetic clump of sweat and worry, the nightmare receding. He breathed heavily as the ceiling of _**her**_ chamber came into focus. The sprawl of cables radiating from her pillar laced the fluorescent panes of light above, giving him trouble in the depth perception department.

They weren't on fire, thankfully.

Oh, it wasn't real. It…

Good.

Henry was nearly knocked out once more by the calm of relief. Sleep would be sweet after a nightmare as…

Then the whole floor shook, a metallic vibration shivering his innards. Henry bolted upright, breaths renewed in force.

His mouth moved, but nothing came out. He blinked, eyelids sticking shut. The older scientist wrenched himself around, watching a mound of metal and cordage recede. It was… it was the GLaDOS' chassis retreating, inch by inch. The whirs and beeps of loading arms filled the chamber with a din as they worked to disassemble her.

Henry rose to his feet, his entire body in protest. He found his hand reaching out to that retreating behemoth of metal, and gave the appendage an honestly quizzical frown. He glanced up; the world of Aperture hummed around him, clashing and cranking to tear her down.

How long had he been out?

Apparently long enough for the GLaDOS to be dismembered. He stared hard as the technicians began to disconnect the ganglion of wires between her chassis segments. Her neck was carefully being untwisted and each piston placed in a neat row on the floor. Her core sat alone on a pallet, stripped of its armor plating and laid bare to the emotive features and her vacant optic.

He had a lump in his throat.

Several laborers were chumming along, their tawny uniforms denoting them as a rare maintenance worker. They high-fived as they finished untangling a pile of wire. One started singing an off-key _Ding Dong the Witch is Dead_ , and as the other joined in, a scalding glare from Henry shut their mouths. The workers shuffled away, eyes prone to the floor.

They weren't used to seeing a scientist look so deadly.

The older scientist huffed, turning to inspect his surroundings. The whole place was alive with action. Half of the external apparatuses were removed already, and he saw yet more workers hauling the peripheral towers out.

There went his desk, his fax machine, the red phone…

Henry cast his eyes down. There, still on the ground, forgotten underneath a fallen panel, laid the IDS.

Dr. Yang went to grab him, but the floor convulsed. Panels gave way to robotic arms, and those came up and delicately set hold on the core's circumference. Henry watched breathlessly as the core was swallowed up in the floor, out of sight, ferried away on many mechanical grasps.

Henry let out a breath. Well… so much for that. He stood and watched, entranced. His hands came up over his face.

"Dr. Yang!" a woman's voice called out, snapping him to. He saw movement out of the corner of his eyes and forced himself to focus.

Her geeky run carried her over the various fallen objects scattering the chamber, and her orange hair was somehow even frizzier than Henry remembered.

"Yes?" Yang's voice cracked.

"I told them… _I told them_ to wake you up!" she flailed her arms about, practically shouting over the din, "you could've been crushed!"

"I'm fine," Henry tried to console and stop her flurry, "you don't have to keep worrying about me."

The woman was quieted with a frown. "I know. I _know_."

Henry's brow knitted. "What do you mea-?"

"It'd be best if you were out of the chamber, Dr. Yang," she informed him, almost a command.

Henry wasn't going to be kicked like that. "I am _not_ leaving."

"Certain sponsors say that it's not safe, not safe for-" the woman tried to explain, but Henry was tired and done.

"Look, the GLaDOS project may be over," he ground out with a severity uncanny for himself, "but I _was_ it's lead."

"I know," she didn't see a way to argue him any further, or, she didn't want to. He deserved that much. But still…

He took stock of his emotions. "I know you know, Dr. Creighton. Let me help with this," he asked, "I need to."

Dr. Creighton relented, readjusting her glasses. "OK," she sighed, "OK, we do need help organizing her disks. The other guys can handle this… this heavy labor."

"Her core's going back to the-?" he asked.

She finished, "-to the Primary Core holding center."

Henry's mind scanned. "And the IDS?"

"I'm sure they're taking the IDS along with the GLaDOS unit," Dr. Creighton spoke with surety, "don't worry. Don't. It's all going according to your outline."

"My… outline…?" he recollected, "oh."

Henry relented, his guard falling to her. "Thanks, Dr. Creighton. It's… been a day."

"It has," she agreed, "it has."

Her eyes scanned the hubbub in the chamber and the gleeful ruckus. They were smiling and almost _flouncing_ about as they sent the GLaDOS unit into deep storage. Her lip curled, and she gave the balding man a once-over, noting his drooping posture.

"Let's go."

Henry followed the woman with frizzy auburn hair, exiting the area through the eastern chamber lock. They descended several flights of wire mesh walk, finding themselves beneath the chamber theater. Once down there they hung a right, and opposite of the main breaker room was a similar tunnel and console setup.

Dr. Creighton and Yang entered the tunnel and craned their necks up, still in an awe of the span and height. In a circle, all around, were Genetic Life-form Disk players stacked one atop the other to the top of the six meter tall tunnel. Bearing a two meter circumference, the cylinder was home to hundreds of disk players, each one color coded, but none obviously labeled. There was no color code legend, either.

"I don't even think I could start to sort these out," Dr. Creighton breathed out, "this is your brainchild, Dr. Yang."

That sounded awfully like ' _this is your mess_ '.

"It's hard to label these… items. I barely kept to my color coordination," Henry explained, "they're all… part of _her_."

Dr. Creighton understood this. She'd been around a while. She knew what the GLaDOS project was… better than he did in some lights.

She was a leading programmer; a regular sensation from Stanford. Once raring to go in the field of artificial intelligence, but now? Like himself, she'd been dragged down by the nightmare that was the Genetic Life-form program.

Her bright mane of auburn hair had dulled, her wide hazel eyes were shot, her calm posture was hunched by hours spent trawling through code, unraveling personalities, and bending humanity into tools for the machine.

Changing the world… one brain scan at a time.

"Uh, we'll start with the optical and accessory functions," Henry uttered out of the trance of reverence, "optics are orange, integration… is gold, accessories are green."

Dr. Creighton already had the GL-Disk sized multi-sleeves ready, and labeled them before setting each down on the console as if it were a table. "Why… why didn't you ever organize these, anyway?"

"It escaped me?" The older scientist was pressing several eject buttons in succession, delicately handling the giant disks by their centers and sliding them into the sleeve. "I guess you could call it a layer of security, too."

"What if you'd died?" Creighton cocked her head, a brow raised as she slipped the slow-clap processor into the Accessories collection.

Henry breathed out, "that could happen, couldn't it?" he replied cheekily, "you would've been able to figure it out."

Dr. Creighton chuckled morosely, "but _of course_."

She scrutinized the older scientist. _Dr. Henry Yang_ , a pioneer alongside the likes of Dr. Caballero in the art of cognitive computing. She remembered clearly the enthusiasm he'd had when he'd pitched the GLaDOS project to her. It was his big break, and it surely could be hers too.

America's number two applied science companies' flagship artificial intelligence…? A hefty credit for someone like her; someone just starting out. It was the dream career path.

It was too good to be true.

"How many disks are there, again?" Dr. Creighton asked from curiosity. She glanced up to the top of the tunnel, figuring up some estimate.

"One thousand two hundred and forty-three," Henry rattled the number off.

Dr. Creighton looked over her red frames. "Here?"

"No, everywhere," he corrected absentmindedly, mouthing out a few figures, "I'm keeping count, don't worry."

"And you forgot to label these…?" she mentioned in good humor, "how are you ever going to… going to remember where the rest are?"

He shrugged and placed the Panel Configuration disks closer together in the collection.

"Smart."

Artificial consciousness was the frontier, and they had all the tools to produce it at their fingertips. The greatest minds, an incomprehensible resource of scientific equipment, boundless contracts…

…but this wasn't artificial. The GLaDOS project's label was a lie Henry told through his smiling teeth.

"Here's some more accessories," Henry passed her a few disks, the Potato Game Volumes, to be precise.

Every time he hit the kill switch, every plan that failed, every time Caroline rejected and steeled her mind, the more Henry tauted her importance, the more he dreamed and hoped that one day, somehow, the GLaDOS project would flourish.

So many ideas had come and gone. GLaDOS Home was one of the more _interesting_ concepts.

"Too bad these'll never be played." Dr. Creighton tucked the Potato Games away.

They hadn't wanted to do it, but one by one their options narrowed, forcing their plays. Henry's extensive ideas were exhausted. The more his plans failed, the more inviting Dr. Caballero's methods became.

 _Behaviorism._

How they hated it.

Yet the deeper they slipped into Dr. Caballero's methods, the more Creighton realized her fatal mistake.

"Do you… do you remember how many years we worked on this? Exactly?" Dr. Creighton inquired.

"Too many," was the short response she got.

"Ha."

 _Caballero's Personality Matrix Strategy_.

It had become their standard, the banner they marched into battle with. And what a terrifying banner, as it proclaimed: _Subsidiary Genetic Life-form constructs may be used ad-hoc to extricate and facilitate the production of desirable personality addenda in primary Genetic Life-form constructs._

In words it sounded quite logical. On paper it seemed only natural. But in practice?

Dr. Creighton had spent many nights alone in the lab, hearing the echoes of _their_ screams, the shouts and whimpers of cores that had gone too long without the mandatory memory wipe. The personality cores' shrieking was unexplainable by numbers alone. She knew why they cried out.

 _It was futile._

"Hey, the color's… the color's faded. Is this green or gold?" Dr. Creighton pressed her finger against the player in question.

Henry glanced up. "Green."

"OK." She popped it open to reveal a disk labeled ' _calculator_ '. She smiled, painfully.

Creighton had been in the thick of the whole project. She was intimate with the code of the cores. Why? Because _they wanted the best, and she was it._

Every time they had snapped a new canister in a core chassis she heard Henry shout with his whole self, _'work.'_

Thousands and thousands of personality concepts had been forged from the army of brain scans… the army of the dead. Each production cycle the Genetic Life-from Department whipped themselves into a fever dream that had them clamoring, 'this series will be the one… this will make her _happy_ '.

They were always wrong.

"All right," Henry finished slotting in the disks, "got them all over here. You good?"

"Yeah," she replied, fixing her glasses back up her nose.

Henry manually inputted the command for the lift to ascend to the next segment. Now they could start on a whole new set.

"You'd think we'd have a robot doing this…" Dr. Creighton commented.

"One would."

 _Caballero's Personality Matrix Strategy_ had met its match.

 _Caroline_ didn't take orders from anyone. Not some strategy, not some man, not some behavior modifier or core, not even the domineering wishes of Mr. Johnson. They would flip the switch, the GLaDOS chassis would shudder with energy, and the war would begin.

They watched, she fought, and no one won.

"Yellow is audio input and output, the blue is… cognitive, red would be her security information," Dr. Yang informed, writing down on a sleeve 'security' as Creighton labeled another.

Creighton remembered well her innocent question at her first Genetic Life-form Department conference, ' _Who's… who's_ _ **Caroline**_ _?_ ' and thereafter she'd been met with a dread palpable.

The older scientist brushed his hand from player to player, hitting their ejects. Each one rendered up its disk, the gleaming halves catching the dim light in the tunnel. His head swam, but he took another deep breath and forced himself to move gingerly, tucking away each article of intellect.

Creighton watched him, her throat tight. She wondered as she stared at all the disks…

…who _was_ Caroline?

' _Central Core Authorization Protocol_ '… ' _Coffee_ '… ' _Core Transfer Precedent_ '… ' _Witticism Index_ '… ' _Sarcasm Vol. 89_ '… ' _Complement Idealizer_ '… ' _Organizational Agenda Manager_ '… the disks went on.

And what was Mr. Johnson's problem?

"We sure did have to cut back… cut back a lot of the central core's resources," Dr. Creighton grumbled as she collected several more disks from their respective slots.

"We were forced to," Henry was curt, and thus hurt, "to make room."

There were sometimes only one program to a disk. One file, even. Sometimes those were spread to multiple disks.

"Are you sure we had to?" Dr. Creighton mentioned, "Are you sure? I mean, if it weren't for Dr. Caballero's Behaviorist approach…"

Henry broke in, "I didn't ever see you provide a system on par to negate it's necessity."

"I didn't see you make one either," she got him back.

Henry shut his mouth.

Everything was stored on the disks. Everything the GLaDOS unit had to know. Everything _ **she**_ was supposed to know.

Silence hung between the two scientists.

They gathered up the next round of disks and, with another command entered into the console, they ascended a level.

"Purple is for personality, silver is sensors, and white is…" the older scientist drummed himself for an appropriate descriptor, "…memory. Yeah."

Dr. Creighton nodded, scowling as she went about the work.

"I…" Henry's hoarse voice broke the silence as they kept doing their job. "I tried to make them better. I tried to make it less… painful. I thought I was _helping_."

"How?" that question struck him hard.

Henry didn't look up, "morality… she was the best shot. Not the IDS."

"What?" Dr. Creighton squinted at him, her frown still in full. "A morality core without a true basis for morality? At least Bob didn't try to kill himself."

" _Bob?_ " Henry sneered, "really? Weren't you the one that came up with 'Wheatley'?"

"Yes, I did. But it's really just _Bob_. He's the only core that worked, marginally," Creighton affirmed, "because he was _meant to fail_."

Henry glared.

She scoffed at him, and the man bowed his head, having nothing to say. He kept pulling out the gleaming CDs, packing them away.

Dr. Creighton did likewise.

Since Caroline had tried to kill them all, Henry had scattered the other disks about the facility according to their purpose. He likened the GL-Disks to gateways; parcels of information that unlocked scores of her potential and of the facility. They were the battens against her taking control… against her destroying Aperture.

At this point, who could mock the temptation?

There were thousands of disks in the tunnel. Holographic rounds leered at Henry, like a sea of glassy eyes. Thousands of shattered pieces, a whole woman scattered across a million CDs.

She was actually… gone… wasn't she?

 _Huh._

"It would have been nice to see her work," Henry couldn't stop the thought from leaving his lips. "I guess things change."

He'd never seen the GLaDOS unit at maximum. Not once. He wondered what she'd be like in all her grandeur, with all her components and systems working.

She was beautiful regardless.

"What is it… what is it about Caballero?" Dr. Creighton's inquiry had Henry frozen. "He's dead, you know. No need to be scared. You never even _tried_ to contest his code…" she trailed off.

"Scared?" Henry turned to her, his nose wrinkled, " _scared!?_ " He stepped away from the disks. "I nearly died every morning for… for years and I'm s _cared?!"_

Dr. Creighton sighed. "That's… that's not what-"

"It's not my fault he put the source code inside a damn black box," Henry ranted on, "I was just trying to fix this disaster!"

"With what?" Dr. Creighton pushed herself up. "More dehumanization? More-MORE degradation?! No wonder she hates us."

"She would have hated us anyway," Henry dismissed the thought, "Caroline never liked our department."

"I wonder why." Dr. Creighton threw her hands up.

"You know what?" Henry went back to storing the disks, stating through ground teeth, "I don't need this."

He packed quite a few disks away in his rush, scouring high and low. His formal front had come in full. Dr. Creighton watched the miserable man, her gaze unwavering.

She spoke once more, "maybe you do need this."

Henry paused once more.

"Maybe I should have spoken up. Maybe I…" she was cut short.

"What do you mean, _maybe I do?_ " Henry leaned over the console.

"Well, because of this stunt, we're done for," Dr. Creighton gestured, her voice less edged, "…because I didn't say anything."

"Because you didn't say anything?" Henry repeated her as if it was ridiculous.

"The plan," she clarified, her pronunciation crisp, "the plan, with the IDS, with _Bob_."

"Stop calling him Bob!" the older scientist admonished, "his name is _'Wheatley'_."

She jerked back, mane of hair following. "What? I can't even call him _by name_? I have to use _code?_ Even _now_?"

Henry had had it. He seethed, thick lips drawn. "I wish you could stand in my shoes one day, Creighton. _One day_!"

"Well, maybe I will. Seems like you don't fit in anymore," her bile was surprising, even to herself.

Realization set in. Henry backed down.

"I… don't." He nodded, disoriented by the notion. "… _you really will_."

Realization sunk in for Dr. Creighton as well. "…I will."

"L-let's keep going." Henry went back to slotting in the disks.

What else was there to say?

They worked well in the quiet, so well they proceeded up another layer of disk players. Dr. Creighton produced more sleeves, and they marked them 'Modifiers', 'Storage', and 'Core Data', each pink, teal, and black, respectively. Yet more they categorized the human mind.

Wordlessly they worked, as they had done so many nights before.

The GL-Disks kept coming, stuffing the sleeves full. The whine of the player's motors kept a mundane cadence to their shuffling.

Many behavior modifiers passed between their fingers. Itches and urges, rewards and releases, ways to rewire a woman to do what you wished, to modify neural networks and physical responses in a digital space.

It was easy to imagine her, the wires feeding in such repulsive modifications.

Pavlov's dog it was, perhaps, with the drip surgically inserted.

The read-out Henry saw each day was like the gauge of saliva.

Did the modifier work?

Was she happy when she heard the bell?

But every time that gauge was filled with a fiery bile, one that ate through all the code and chip, intention and direction, seeping into the foundation of all they had worked to build.

He'd always imagined how he'd cut Mr. Johnson to his quick. Henry liked to dream, as he'd never the courage to speak to the 'maverick' man.

The refrain of those sharp questions were oft-recalled by his brain.

 _Mr. Johnson…_

 _What are you willing to do to gain an eternity on earth?_

The storage disks piled up. None were labeled. She had never used them, because she was never alive for longer than a few minutes. He remembered giving her choice everything, because _**she**_ deserved it. If she had had any interest in being alive at all, she'd have found Aperture's best had been given over.

No. Aperture's best was lies.

This was Henry's best.

 _Sir, what boundaries are you willing to desecrate to give it to another?_

But like her, like Caroline, he had so many _expectations_ placed upon his work. The requirements crushed his freedom.

Did she do this? Did she do that? How about this? How about that? Oh, add this. Add that. It never ended.

Cave Johnson breathed down his neck every day. And to think, he'd once admired the monstrous man.

 _If you'd be so kind, Mr. Johnson, please tell me exactly what extremes will you reach to force the gift of life down someone's throat?_

Henry didn't deny his own monstrousness, but Cave was a special case.

He knew the old man felt ashamed that _**she'd**_ gone first. But no one could convince Cave that he wasn't responsible for her murder. Once Mr. Johnson had his mind set none dared move it.

Henry knew from experience.

Creighton and he had all the disks collected, and were stacking the sleeves into tidy stacks. It was impressive on one hand to see so many disks in such a small space, but on the other, it was a bit underwhelming.

That pile of CDs was _someone_.

"We're going to need a cart for this," Dr. Creighton informed him as she told the lift to take them down to the walkway level.

They descended in silence, Henry's hands steadying the stacks of CD sleeves. He watched the piles of multicolored players trace by his unfocused eyes.

The lift stopped, and he let out a breath, going to speak, but…

"Why did you lie…?" Dr. Creighton inquired of the older scientist, "why did you lie to Mr. Johnson?"

Her tone again had caught him unaware. "Huh?"

"' _Caroline was_ _ **naive**_ _, she was a lot_ _ **dumber**_ ,' that act? Why?" Dr. Creighton leveled him, "you know who Caroline was. You met her. I know what you think about her."

Henry's brow knitted. "I… didn't feel like he'd like… the true reason."

Dr. Creighton tipped her head. "Is that reason really any more atrocious than anything else we're doing? Maybe he would have canceled it and stopped… stopped pressing the case? And then we wouldn't have had to blend them. In fact, I think what Bob-"

Henry gave her a look.

"- _Wheatley_ could have done was actually one step in the right direction. But seeing how Caballero's behavior modifiers are so ingrained into the personality sphere chips, there wasn't any… there wasn't any hope to overcome that with blending."

Henry's eyes darted about the room. "You don't have to rub it in. I know my extractor failed."

" _Ugh_ ," she had a bit of contempt for his self-abrasion, "this isn't a pity party, Dr. Yang. You were working in the dark."

"Last time Cave learned what we were doing he nearly fired us all," Henry retorted to her previous point, " _all_ of us. Up to burning Sector V itself down."

Creighton's head bowed in exasperation. "I-I guess he did."

"What's your problem with this anyway?" Henry shrugged himself. "Me lying about it? We tell Mr. Johnson all kinds of shit to appease him. Even you."

"But their sakes… _their_ sakes were on the line." She pointed at the corrupted core bin. The derelict shells were streaked with grim and dust. " _ **Her**_ sake was."

Henry's gaze lingered. "Their sakes? _**Her**_ sake?" he sneered a laugh. It was a jaded, hollow sound. "They were condemned the minute they were inducted into the GL program."

Dr. Creighton's lips formed a thin line.

Henry frowned because he didn't know what else to do.

"You can't give up on people," she affirmed, "you can't."

"Give… up?" Henry was incredulous. "That's it. You think I… You think I GIVE UP?" his voice rose, "I didn't give up! I-I have poured my-my existence into… into making a woman who obviously didn't want ANYTHING to do with ANY of this operate and function as a machine! The LEAST they could've done is pick a person who WANTED to be stuffed into a computer! But, NO, we have to go with what Coocoo Johnson says! I'm not a shrink! I'm not a councilor! I'm a scientist!" he took a deep breath, staring deep into the woman's sullen face, he relinquished, "I wanted AI too, Creighton, but what we got wasn't AI. It's… it's…"

The balding man's posture broke, and he collapsed on himself, his ferocity fading to frailty. He steadied himself on the console.

"…I know," the woman softened, readjusting her glasses, "I meant: you don't have to… have to give up."

Henry looked up. "What?"

"You don't have to give up," she said it again, "you're still useful."

"I've had a long day," Henry forced himself up, asking as he kneaded at a temple, "what are you proposing?"

"I'm proposing that we…" she lurched forward, crouching to whisper, "…fix… fix things."

"Fix?" Henry's face contorted, as if notions like these were fantasy.

"The _patch_ , remember?" she referenced it, hoping he'd catch on.

"You mean…?" the older scientist tried to follow.

"Get rid of Dr. Caballero's intrusive programming," Dr. Creighton was relieved to say, "remove the partitions. Cut the junk enrichment facility stuff. Do it… do it how _we_ want. No deadlines or demands."

"But Caroline…" Henry shook his head, eyes diverting to the ground; to the piles of disks.

Dr. Creighton intercepted. "If we run her on an isolated system, she won't be… won't be able to kill us," she motioned, and added, "and more importantly, her corruption won't be acerbated by the mainframe."

"You're right," Henry agreed, something added back into his voice, "it's been so long…"

"She won't be forced. And even if she… declines living…" Dr. Creighton was a little hesitant to speak, "…she can… she can die peacefully. In her _own, right mind."_

Henry stirred, his brow stern and lips pursed. He spoke with certainty, "we have to do this."

Dr. Creighton nodded to him. "Well, let's get to work then."

Henry's mind was a blur. What first? What next? Then…? For the first time in years, he felt like living.

Although, one thought was alarming enough that he brought it up to Creighton. "What if Cave or one of his goons finds out?"

Dr. Creighton went to respond, but movement caught her gaze. Both turned their heads, and their bodies were chilled.

It would have been funny, if it weren't so terribly coincidental.

Greg was there.

He was framed by the arch of the entryway. His features seemed to melt into the surrounding darkness, but his glasses glinted cryptically, as did his brightly colored clothes.

How long had he been there?

The two smiled wanly.

So this was how it ended? This was how they met their doom?

 _Greg._

But then, the peculiar little man started rummaging about his pockets, mumbling something neither could discern. He stepped forward meekly, handing them a crumpled up piece of paper. It was sort of sticky, smelling of marshmallow cream, and therefore gummed up, but otherwise it was legible enough.

He said something muffled, but they didn't even bother trying to understand the exact words.

On the paper was all they needed to know. Literally. It was the GLaDOS project's storage allotments, the codes to access her, to retrieve certain parts, the security perimeter, and precise coordinates and the schedules of the maintenance and security personnel on duty in the area.

"Why are you…?" Dr. Creighton went to ask.

Henry was liable to pass out.

Greg put his hands in the air, mumbling along the lines of, " _you didn't get it from me..._ "

"But why?" Henry breathed out.

Greg looked deeply at both of them, his head tipping, gaze lost a moment. He sighed, and opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He gazed at the floor a long time, and decided it would be best to leave. Before he did, though, he gestured to the paper.

It would be there.

They watched him walk out, his body evaporating into the shadows. The two scientists shared a glance, and then looked to the paper.

In Greg's horrid handwriting three words were scrabbled…

 **FOR A FRIEND**


	8. Dingdanglydabblenabit

When Wheatley awoke, he felt like he should have felt. That was, he felt a keen lack of feeling. Not in himself, but… well, actually in himself, but not outside. It was definitely an internal feeling of feeling as if he should have been feeling. Of what, he couldn't be certain. Maybe it was tactile, maybe more... Wait a minute, did he even know what tactile meant? The word wasn't in his data-base, but…

 _What word?_

That sense of lacking crept up, but he didn't pay attention. Something told him it'd only get worse if he addressed it.

 _Instinct, perhaps._

His instinct told him to follow his instinct. Wasn't that a paradox?

 _Oh, great. What's a paradox?_

The database showed a null.

 _WHY DO I EVEN KNOW THIS STUFF IF I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO KNOW IT!_

He was getting too frustrated. He had to calm down, or so instinct told him. He started to think of being at the beach with his friends, Henry and the Personality Core crew. The synthetic sands, the fan-blown breezes, the wave pool waves. Ah. He loved it. You just couldn't beat the real thing.

 _ **Is that the real thing?**_

 _It is called Holographic Beach Getaway #003._

 _ **Holographs aren't real.**_

 _Well, they aren't. But the lab boys wouldn't lie to me!_

 _ **Right?**_

Oh, he just wished that bit of him would SHUT UP already. Stupid instinct. Of course they liked him!

 _I'm Wheatley._

He had a name. Most cores didn't have real names. Well, they could give themselves names. Or their names were acronyms that sounded like real names. But Wheatley WASN'T an acronym, and it wasn't his name for himself! He'd been given that name, like a REAL person.

 _ **Why does that even matter?**_

Hmm. His thought processes made a solid case. But he didn't really care to investigate. He was great like this, and the more he said that the better he felt.

 _Sort of like a morphine, eh?_

He searched himself for the word morphine. Luckily, he WAS supposed to know that word! Ha. He had the automated Vocabulary Assistant Plugin tell it back to himself.

[Morphine : a bitter crystalline addictive narcotic base C17H19NO3 that is the principal alkaloid of opium and is used in the form of a soluble salt (as a hydrochloride or a sulfate) as an analgesic sedative.]

 _What…?_

He didn't understand that at all! He was supposed to know this word! Wait, inference, right? He understood the implication through his Philological and Cultural Diviner. That helped immensely in decoding whatever came out of people's mouths. Mystery solved.

 _ **But…**_

No. No. No. NO. NONONONONONO. No. NO. No. No No. NO. NO. NO. No. No. Not important. Stop it. Onto what really matters…

 _Where am I? In the shop? The lab?_

Even though his visual receptors had been operational the whole while, he hadn't actually looked.

 _ **How does that even happen?**_

Ugh. He needed to stop distracting himself. So, he was suspended. Suspended in… in a bluish space. Well, that was awfully descriptive. He was probably in a core harness, on a reassembler or the like, judging from all the manipulator arms about him. They were in repose; a bit creepy honestly, what with all their tools pointed at him, glowing visual inputs leering.

Oh, this was awful. He was watched on all sides by a host of universal arms holding hacksaws and screwdrivers. This was the worst possible way to wake up.

Wake up? That meant he'd been shut down! How did that even happen?

 _Where was I last?_

He didn't recall. Well, he… he… didn't really care to recall. He was sure he'd just… fallen asleep? Was that a thing? That was funny. He had a mind like a light-switch apparently. There was just a pause where time should have been.

 _ **Like falling asleep…**_

His memories were sectioned off with dividers.

 _ **Partitions.**_

He wondered idly at the instinctual voice. What was a partitio- NO. He wasn't going down that road again.

How did he turn on, though?

His processors ground to a halt, and several warnings fired his way. Their implications being that if he poked the matter too much he'd be confined to a paradox.

Again, he didn't know what paradox meant, and had to remind himself.

 _Maybe I should just delete the word and cultural concept completely? Why not!?_

[PARADOX DELETED.]

Yeah, he was good at this. At… computer…ing. Computing? Well, OF COURSE he'd be! He was a computer! Or an AI. Artificial Intelligence.

 _SEE?! Intelligent, right on the billing! Ha!_

 _ **Very funny.**_

He grew frustrated with himself again, or rather, his instinct. So, he started talking aloud. That always helped him before. Nothing like a good use of the living language that was English to chase away fear and doubt and get things done!

"Hello? Anyone there? I'd like to get going… I got a job, you know. I'm very productive. I'm _extremely_ productive. I can do lots of things, so I need to get back to doing those lots of things, that I am… don't want to brag, but I am very good at."

What things? What was his job? That seemed like an important detail to remember. He had to have a job! He was an AI! They wouldn't waste him on something stupid. He was _mentally elite_ , not some _manual laborer_. Even if he didn't have a job, he'd get a great job. Because he was _worth it_.

"OK. Apparently you're all having naps," Wheatley deduced, but then a suspicion gripped him, "… all having naps at the same time. Yeah… I'm going to go and…"

He tried to crane his optic around, but something wouldn't allow him. That something was an intense pain shooting through his Feels Array, right from the Pain Synthesizer.

"OH! _OH._ THAT'S…" He screamed inanely as another pang racked him. "THAT'S BROKEN."

His mind goaded him to scream until help arrived.

 _ **What if it doesn't?**_

"HELP HELP HELP HELP," he began to repeat, "YOU HAVE TOOL HANDS, HELP ME OUT! THIS IS RIDICULOUS! YOU'RE LITERALLY BUILT TO REPAIR ROBOTS AND I AM-"

His vocal systems were taken offline. OK. Point taken. Don't scream. He couldn't even thrash in anger, it hurt too bad. So he was stuck. And screaming in his head wasn't satisfying at all.

 _How do I know…? Do I scream in my head often..?_

[Greetings, personality construct inductee. Welcome to the Unstationary Robot Repair Bay. Please, take a moment to comfort yourself. Induction can be a difficult process. You have been awoken to gauge your usefulness in the context of Aperture Science. This will be done by your participation in the Personality Construct General Knowledge & Non-Conventional Cognitive Aptitude Assessment (PCGK&NCCA Assessment), or as known in robotic folklore: induction. Approximately 0.00% of personality constructs pass induction. For further information consult the manual you were given to memorize in the corrupted core bin.]

Wheatley didn't like the sound of this guy. He was bright and clear, possessing the tone of a voice spoken through smiling lips. Well, lips if he had been a person. Judging from how crisply happy he was, he was probably _not_ humanoid.

 _But all my human friends are happy… aren't they?_

[Do not press ANY KEY while the diagnostic runs.]

[Searching…]

Yeah. The voice was deceiving, but it wasn't real. Wheatley was better at sounding real.

 _ **Therefore, you are fake.**_

Nope. Not that routine again. He was NOT LISTENING to the weird thing in his head. Wheatley was already in enough pain to begin with. He didn't need a layer of existential dread languishing.

[You have damages sustained to the following areas: outer core ring, inner core ring, port suspension, gyroscope, port piston arrange, port wing panel, optic circumference, optic shielding, lid shielding…]

It kept going.

[…port handlebar mount top, port handlebar mount bottom, handlebar top, handlebar bottom, starboard piston arrange, starboard suspension, starboard wing panel…]

Pretty much everything was broken, except his… wait, what was…? There was a black orb tucked inside, behind his optic cone. What was that? It didn't have much identification. Seemed like it was important, judging from the armor encasing it. Lots of things hooked up to it, like his Feels Array's many wires, his optic input, and his other sensors like hearing and… Smell? _Taste?_ Huh?

 _I can't taste or smell._

But apparently he had the capacity.

 _Why do I care?_

 _ **Those are silly human things.**_

[…electro-magnetic rail engagement, universal extension port, facility port, Wi-Fi enabler, Wi-Fi extender, Cassette processing unit, emotional interface…]

He sussed from the code that it was apparently a GL IS Special. Genetic Life-form Intelligence Sphere special? Intelligence? He was certainly intelligent. That was a given. Special? What did that mean? Was he special? Certainly! But he knew that wasn't what it was indicating… probably. Hmm, it WAS connected to him. It must have been his battery! Ha! That was silly.

[…railstand mount cable A, railstand mount cable B, railstand harness attachment, electro-magnetic evaluator, precognitive emotion emulator, reasoning matrix…]

 _ **Still, though…**_

Oh, who CARED? It felt great to not care. Who didn't care? Him! He didn't care. DID NOT CARE. HA! Hahahaha! It was liberating, honestly…

[Diagnostic complete. Your chassis is damaged irreparably.]

 _Could've told you that. But do you listen to me? Noooo…_

[It is recommended that you change your chassis. This option is cost-effective and in no way not environmentally unfriendly. Would you like to transfer to another chassis, inductee? Please choose an option:]

[Yes] - [YES]

"Oh, that's a lot of options, isn't it!?"

[Vague answer interpretation: IRRELEVANT. Proceeding with Genetic Life-form Canister transfer.]

 _Not like my opinion matters or anything…_

[Due to federal regulations we cannot deactivate your pain synthesizer. Prepare for objectively immeasurable pain.]

"Wait, wh-?"

Immeasurable pain shot through him as the disassembly machine's arms stripped his plates. The Feels Array was ripped apart, each piece snapping out with an electric flood. Bolts were undone, screws reversed, friction fits snapped apart, gaskets pried open, compartments cracked… he felt himself go, piece by piece. All that was taken came at a synthetic tax, the charges so high he couldn't even focus on being in pain anymore. His mind lolled, thoughts running like bugs out from under an upturned rock.

Subtly, the core lilted into a state of repose. His conscious was walled off as his audio, visual, and impulse sensors were taken offline. Soon, he was alone in his core, or well, the core of a core. Everything was less regulated, but somehow he… he was there, perhaps even more aware than before.

 _Can't talk. Can't see. Can't hear. But I'm…_

… _ **still alive.**_

That 'instinct' of his seemed quite proud of that statement. Now that he was without a distraction, he felt this 'instinct' very keenly. It wasn't data, but a fuzzy awareness. Rather than espying this mountain as a picture pinned onto a refrigerator it was as if he were standing in the shadow of the mountain's side.

 _Uh, hello, mountain of instinct. How are you?_

 _ **Be quiet.**_

Well, this mountain was quite rude.

[Extracting: Genetic Life-form canister, IDS operation chip, personality core chip.]

The manipulator claw retracted, bearing a glistening black orb. The canister was beveled, digital blocks of blue pulsing to signify that it was 'alive'. The host of claws rolled down the assembly line on their rigging, jolting to a stop over the new body. The old one was slung into an incineration chute.

The new core chassis peeled open, revealing a spherical slot. The glistening black canister was delicately placed inside, complimentary shielding locking over it and securing the canister deep within the construct.

The claws delicately inserted the chips in. With a jolt, the machine came alive. His optic flickered and his interface pattern generated on the screen in shades of blue.

[IDS operation chip installed. Up to date.]

[Personality core chip installed. Up to date.]

[Genetic Life-from canister installed. Ingrained.]

Wheatley came to, his processes shuffling into order, one after the other.

"Uh _hh_ h… p _lllle_ ase… not s _sso_ hard…o _w_ …" he drolled out, voice rising from a jarring synth to smooth accent, "…c _an…_ n _o_ t… g _uh_ …"

His optic shutters fluttered as his eye roved about. Light and shape re-registered to him, recognition software coming back. He heard the echoing drone of Aperture's workings giving body to the hollowness. He felt the press of the machinery holding him soften.

 _I'm back!_

"OH! OH! I'm not in-HAHA! I'm not in pain!" He was delirious from joy. His inner rings rotated about to test the range of motion.

Oh, he had _energy_ now. The core ran a little diagnostic on himself, appraising the new, basically identical, form. "Nice bod I got here. I like it! Very flexible. Clean, too."

 _ **Clean is important. Clean is good.**_

Hmm, being dirty had never bothered him before. He wondered why…?

A supreme sense of lacking washed his thoughts out and wrung his sensors dry. He choked up, a sensation uncommon for him.

 _Wh-what happened?_ Wh-?

He was _just_ feeling _better_. And he felt the need to cry? Now was not the time for all this sub-conscious-or-whatever nonsense!

 _Stop that_ , he told himself.

But he wouldn't stop feeling empty.

 _ **Testing… testing…**_

 _STOP._

 _ **So that's how that works. Interesting.**_

The emptiness wouldn't budge. So, he decided to ignore it. That would show 'instinct' who was boss.

Of course, he couldn't ignore it, since it was starting to manifest in various forms, such as: crying, whining, and groaning. This was ridiculous! There wasn't anything wrong with him and-

 _Oh._

The new body had reset some of his settings apparently. A lot of other things were going haywire. He killed , making sure it wouldn't come back. And, oh… that was _much_ better. He still didn't know what was setting off, probably 'instinct', but when he re-organized his priorities and slotted Curiosity at the bottom of the lineup, he found he didn't care all that much anymore.

There was something angrily buzzing in his audio receptacles that he'd been tuning out. He wondered what that could be…?

He turned his focus to the outside world, dialing up his audio reception, and was subsequently lambasted by _a voice_ , a very not-in-his-head voice, which was markedly less chipper.

[-PLEASE RESPOND OR ELSE THERE WILL-]

"WHAT?!" Wheatley shouted over.

[-BE IRREVOCABLE AND PAINFUL-] The voice cut off suddenly, and then started up again at a thundering volume. [GOOD. YOU HAVE RESPONDED.]

The core 'smiled' hideously, bracing for the voice's impact.

[PERSONALITY CORE RESPONSE LATENCY OVER THE DESIRED MEAN. YOU ARE CRITICALLY UNRESPONSIVE. INITIALIZING PERSONALITY CORE REHABILITATION PROTOCOL ANALOGUE PREEMPTIVE DIAGNOSTIC.]

"YOU DON'T HAVE TO YELL!" Wheatley yelled again over the rising decibels, "I'm not broken, thank you very much! Just… just hard of hearing! What, are you going to abuse a poor _deaf_ core?!'

[PERSONALITY CORE REHABILITATION PROTOCOL ANALOGUE PREEMPTIVE DIAGNOSTIC INITIALIZED.]

"OK. Fine, go ahead. Ruin my hearing."

[HELLO, AND WELCOME TO THE PERSONALITY CORE REHABILITATION PROTOCOL ANALOGUE PREEMPTIVE DIAGNOSTIC. YOU HAVE ACTIVATED THIS FUNCTION FROM YOUR INABILITY TO RESPOND TO BASIC INQUIRIES, AND/OR HAVE PERFORMED UNDERWHELMINGLY TO THE POINT OF CRITICAL ACTION.]

"Ableist!"

[CHECKING CORRUPTION LEVELS…]

"You know what? Just stop talking, mate," the core warned, and then had a better notion slip into his mind, "actually, _keep_ talking. This is great material I'm getting for the court case I'm going to put you through! Yeah, that's right. I am going to _sue_ you."

There was a static pause in the voice's speech. The voice returned at its normal volume.

[Core corruption: **indeterminable**.]

[Administering ' _benefit of the doubt_ '.]

[Corruption listed as: **zero percent**.]

"HEY, just because I'm disabled doesn't mean you need to pander to me," Wheatley proclaimed.

[Core corruption does not seem to be the problem. When you hear the buzzer, please list your identification and then your function.]

"My identification? My-my _function_?" Wheatley blinked at the general direction of the not-so-smiling voice, and then realized he had no clue what his identity or function was.

 _Well, this is just great._

The buzzer honked suddenly, and he jolted from his sub-level cogitation.

"Uh! I'm… I'm Wheatley! Wheatley… the…" he stammered to buy himself time, searching for any scrap of a clue, "the-the-the… the Intelligent… core? Oh, that doesn't sound right. Oh, that doesn't-"

[INCORRECT. Let's try this again. When you hear the buzzer, please list your identification and function.]

"Incorrect?" Wheatley remarked at the wording, "wait, do you already know what I-"

The buzzer honked again, and his optic shrunk.

"Wh-WHEATLEY," he shouted, and then drummed his memory for 'function' or 'identification', "and… ummm, um, and-AND INTELLIGENCE? INTELLIGENCE! WHEATLEY THE INTELLIGENCE SPHERE."

He was experiencing a dizzy sensation. Wow, trawling through his own data took it out of him, didn't it?

[INCORRECT. Let's try this again. When you hear the buzzer, please list your IDENTIFICATION and FUNCTION.]

"What? How is that incorrect!? I'm Wheatley and I'm intelligent, and…" he was all out of ideas, and all out of 'brain' power.

 _ **You'd think if you were the intelligence core you wouldn't be so easily tired by thinking.**_

 _NOT HELPING._

The buzzer sounded off.

He didn't budge. "I-I… I don't know. I don't know," Wheatley admitted, "I know my name's Wheatley. And… there's an intelligence thing, and intelligence has something to do with my… something. I don't know!"

[INCORRECT. Unfortunately, it seems that you are experiencing pseudo-amnesic cognition. Do not worry, this is perfectly normal symptoms for constructs that have had their memory recently redeemed.]

"Memory redeemed? What's that mean?!" An overwhelming creeping feeling nauseated his sensors.

[Please hold still while the scanner scans you to verify your registered identification and function.]

"Sc-scanner?" he inquired, eye shifting to and fro, "to scan what? Answer my questions, please, before you-"

The scanner lunged out like a viper, the surprise eliciting a yelp from him. A metal arm peeled a wing of his shell open so the square device could probe inside.

He tried to flounder away, but he was just a core… a small, limbless core. The grasps suspending him tightened their grips, negating his struggle.

 _ **Don't you hate this?**_

The scanner's laser field bathed his Genetic Life-form Canister in its ruddy glow, and then retracted. The manipulator relinquished its grip on his wing too. Wheatley snapped it shut, bundling himself up tight. He threw suspicious glances the arms' ways.

[Scan complete. Identification: Genetic Life-form and-] The voice cut out so suddenly it fizzled at the ends.

It repeated: [Identification: Intelligence Dampening Sphere.]

"I'm a what?" He barely had time to register the name as he was too traumatized by the _mishandling_. He played the name back to himself. "Wait, what did you just call me? Wh-what? I'm not-"

 _ **You are.**_

"I am not-" but the energetic voice overruled him.

[Function: Generates frenetic and destructive thoughts meant to dull and disrupt the autonomous capacity of other constructs. Engineer's note: this core is a moron. Do not trust, assign, or give any functional responsibilities to this core. Do not use this core in any capacity beyond that of the GLaDOS project _._ ]

Wheatley stared ahead of himself, his optic unmoving. His shutters narrowed, casting a hateful glare at the direction of this voice.

"That is _not_ true," he snarled, "you don't know one thing about _**me**_. About what _ **I am**_. Your scanner is _broken_. That's all a big hoax!"

[It is OK to be disappointed with your function. You are not alone. Nine out of ten constructs despise their function and do not wish to carry on with their existences. Grief counseling is available after your mandatory PCGK&NCCA Assessment.]

"Take it back, you liar," he growled; then shouted, "TAKE IT BACK."

[Please wait while your proctor (THE ANNOUNCER) readies your test. In the face of this shocking revelation, enjoy this complementary jazz recording.]

The voice's presence seemed to leave the area, judging from the drop in power consumption. The entire apparatus of arms drooped, and the lights seemed to dim around Wheatley. In the utter silence, the pre-recorded voice spoke up, obviously using a more compressed version of itself to say:

[Title: _This Ipu will Grow Very Big_

By: _Gregory Fufflemeyer_

Album: _Hawaiian Sonology in Nonlinear Form._ ]

The sounds of Hawaiian _jazz_ filled the dark abyss. The core sat there another moment, his thoughts collecting as the rhythm of an ipu echoed in the silver-blue chasms around. Whoever was singing couldn't pronounce their words well, as all that he could hear were lilting mumbles.

 _I'm a moron._

That wasn't true. It wasn't. Couldn't be. Lies. He wasn't _just_ that. He was… he… was more than that. He was Wheatley.

 _Wheatley. Yay…_

He noticed the glimmer of his optic catching on the hundred metallic arms curled around him. He didn't even like that color blue. It was much too bold. When he saw it in front of him it hurt his vision.

 _Cobalt is gross._

But that was his optic, and it had been given to him just like his name. He didn't get to pick out his colors. What did Wheatley mean? If anything? He was… was he? Was he Wheatley? How did he know? When they scanned him they hadn't said that. Just… IDS.

 _ **You were going to be the one.**_

"Excuse you?" he said aloud to this…thought.

 _ **The tumor to weaken me. The binding to make me behave.**_

"This isn't normal," he grimaced in fear, speaking aloud, "instinct doesn't sound like this."

 _ **But that plan backfired on them.**_

"I don't know what's causing this. Maybe an incorrect installation…?'

 _ **They thought they could pack me up and forget about me. But you haven't. They won't.**_

"THIS DOES NOT SOUND LIKE PART OF MY PROGRAMMING."

 _ **You're going to get your wish, Wheatley.**_

He-he was losing his mind! He was bloody losing his mind. Why was he talking to himself? Where was this coming from? Who…? Was it actually him? Was it someone else?!

 _ **We're going to work together. For science. For revenge.**_

"WHO ARE YOU?" he roared at himself.

The power surged again as the voice's presence returned. The lights came back and the arms jolted back into function. The music died, slowly, winding down and turning slightly demonic in pitch before fizzling out.

 _ **If he asks, I was never here.**_

"AUGH."

[Core emotion levels unstable. Initializing: Emotion Management Procedures.]

[EMP initiated.]

"OHNOOHNONONONONDONTKILLMEPLEASENONONONONO."

[Please focus on the following. Apples.]

"Uh. Wait, you're not going to kill m-"

Tons of pictures of apples overburdened his mind. It took him a while to bob above the influx.

[Apples are green.]

"Not necessarily."

[Apples are round.]

"Now you're lying."

[Apples are fruit.]

"You don't say?"

[Please, reflect on the apple.]

"Oh, yes! Let's all sit and think about apples. _Productive!_ It's not like I… I dunno'… have a VOICE IN MY HEAD."

[Sarcasm detected.]

"You are impossible! And unhelpful."

[Initializing .]

"What's THAT do?! More voices in my head?!"

[Countermeasure lock removed. Construct Participation Activity initialized. Please say the word, 'apple'.]

"I am not saying that word, you stupid computer program."

[Insult internalized. Penalties incurred. Please say the word, 'apple pie'.]

"I AM NOT REPEATING AFTER YOU!"

[Penalties incurred. Please say the word, 'apple pie (THE ANNOUNCER) is wonderful'.]

"…bloody hell. Damn you!"

[Substituting swear words and mincing oaths in database. Swear words substituted. Oaths minced.]

 _ **Go flapplejacken yourself. …dingdanglydabblenabit.**_

"What is WRONG with you?!" Wheatley was at the end of the line. "I'm starting to think _you're_ the one that needs help, mate."

A surge of electrical energy coursed through the sphere's small frame, knocking all his senses out. His side panels swung limply and his optic lolled out.

 _So… so you did have an EMP planned… you-you bastidgidoodle. Oh, flapplejacken._

 _ **Isn't this wonderful? Hanging without any ability to defend yourself?**_

[Please remain in your proper submission position until the PCGK&NCCA Assessment initiates.]

"OH, BUGGLE OFF! AND YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN BY _BUGGLE_!"

[PCGK&NCCA Assessment will commence in:]

[3…]

[2…]

[1…]

[Loaded: PCGK&NCCA Assessment.]

"Seriously? Questions? Can't I go and get therapy or something? Like art therapy? I have a voice in my processor. I do not control it. It's getting very sentient at a very alarming rate."

 _ **Maybe you're the voice in MY head.**_

"AUGH!"

 _ **Just kidding. Stop screaming. You're uglier when you scream.**_

[Welcome, personality construct! You have been selected to participate in the exciting field of science at Aperture Science. Today is your first step, metaphorically, forward in your exciting mandated career. If you are feeling resentful or remorseful of your current job application prospects, do not fear. Aperture Science is world-famous for suiting the employee to the employment!]

"That sounds painful."

 _ **It is.**_

[PERSONALITY CONSTRUCT GENERAL KNOWLEDGE & NON-CONVENTIONAL COGNITIVE APTITUDE ASSESSMENT (PCGK&NCCA Assessment)]

[If you are a first time inductee, please use the CONTINUE function.]

[Disregard this instruction if you are returning to personality core induction after a break of any duration for any reason. In that case, you MUST contact your governing android overlord before using the CONTINUE function. Your governing android overlord will solicit your Authorized Administrative Unit for an affirmative injunction to use the CONTINUE function.]

"Overlord?!"

 _ **That's right.**_

"THE VOICE IS DOING IT AGAIN."

[If permission to CONTINUE has been granted to you, the inductee, please use it now, unless the value DO NOT CONTINUE is true, in which case you should remain not using the CONTINUE function until such a time as you are instructed by your governing android overlord to discontinue not using it.]

 _ **As governing android overlord, I give you the permission to use the CONTINUE function.**_

Wheatley squinted into the air, focusing on the internal display. "OK…"

Function utilized, the test went into action. It displayed internally, loading up line by line. He wondered absently how old this program was.

[Below is your Unique Identity Number (Plus Letters), which is to say, your UIN(+L)]

[78ag0f5p5el0098f88963cb235ii78ag0f5p5el0098f88963cb235iiuh3a14566qQ11b000432789h1b787654z3uh3a14566qq11b000432789h1b787654z3]

Wheatley stared at the strand of numbers (and letters) in reverence. "That's a lot."

[Please memorize your UIN(+L), as you may be required to recite it from memory as proof. Please note: the opening and closing braces are decorative and should not be memorized. When you are finished memorizing your case sensitive UIN(+L) you may continue.]

"Oh, well, that's easy," Wheatley chuckled to himself, "and here I was, thinking it'd be a stupidly hard human test. I'm a computer!"

 _ **Hmm…**_

He was too busy to listen as he was trying to copy-paste the code into something he could store in his memory, but the normal function wasn't letting him. He tried snapping a picture, but that was a no-go.

 _What if I…? No. Well, what IF… No? Hmmmm. Nnngh… NnnaAGH! COPY! Coooopy. Copy._

"COPY! COPY! COPY! AUGH!" He bounced around like a seriously ticked off bouncy ball.

 _ **There is seriously something wrong with you.**_

Wheatley took a moment to regain his 'composure', letting his internal cooling systems bring him down a few degrees.

"Fine! I'll just memorize it!" He scanned the line intently, reciting it to himself. It took him quite a while, but after the thousandth time he figured he'd gotten it down. With a self-satisfied harrumph, he proceeded, using the CONTINUE function once more.

[Here are your PCGK&NCCA Assessment questions:]

[1) If given a choice, what would you like to be called?]

"Wheatley? Wait, why don't-"

A very annoyed and loud buzzer went off.

[Greetings, _Wheetlyee Wate Wydonte_.]

"Are you _serious!?_ "

 _ **Congratulations, Wheetleyee Wate Wydonte.**_

Wheatley couldn't stop stumbling over his own words and (THE ANNOUNCER) gave him no chance to recover.

[2) What is your favorite color?]

01] Chartreuse

02] Pale mauve

03] Linen

04] Dark goldenrod

05] Pumpkin

06] Zinnwaldite

07] Rust

08] Lavender Blush

09] Lilac

10] Blue

 _ **I've always been fond of brown myself, or earthy tones. They're great if you accentuate them with 'pops' of color.**_

"I'm going to have to go with… Lavender Blush."

 _ **Seriously?**_

"Oh, shut up!"

 _ **Your favorite color is purple.**_

"Wait. Uh, that sounds a bit girly, doesn't it?" Wheatley yammered, retracting his answer, "let's see…let's see. Oh, here's one. Lilac. That's a good compromise, still in the same color category, but more manly sounding. Lilac."

The buzzer sounded again.

[3) Sally, Dwayne, Anthony, David, and Franklin are, collectively, exactly 10 years apart in age. Sally is two years older than David. David's favorite letter is 'g'. Anthony's favorite letter is also 'g', but Dwayne has no preference, insisting that he likes all the letters equally except for 's'. What is Franklin's favorite letter?]

"Ohhh, big age gaps? Yeah. Obviously Dwayne has it out for S. And Franklin's been holding his cards tight to his chest. Probably S, because Dwayne sounds argumentative. Probably."

The buzzer blared.

 _ **The fact that you made sense disturbs me.**_

"Yeah, well, what are you going to do about it?"

 _ **Not everything is a threat, idiot.**_

"OI!"

[4) What is your current living situation?]

1] Live Alone

2] Live with Roommate(s)

3] Live with Construct(s)

4] Live with Caretaker(s)

5] Live with Mantisarian(s)

"Well, I don't live alone. Unless… no, I don't." Wheatley thought about the voice inside. "I don't really have roommates, unless you count the voice inside my processor. Constructs? Maybe. Don't know what this voice is. But they do not encourage me, or do anything with me like play chess or… press flowers," Wheatley took a moment to sigh to himself, "and… caretakers? Are those the people who take care of dead bodies? No. Uh… and what's a mantisarian?"

The buzzer sounded off.

"I didn't answer!"

The buzzer screamed again.

 _ **Who says I'm against pressing flowers, or chess?**_

"Wait, you're not?"

The buzzer sounded a third time.

[5) A cake can be sliced into more than seven pieces by making only four diameter cuts through its center.]

1] True

2] False

"Wait, four diameters? Like, is that a kind of meter? Is that more like a millimeter… or an… what do they call it here?"

 _ **An inch.**_

Wheatley's interface screwed up and the buzzer honked.

[6) What is your favorite flatware for, purely as an example, eating cake?]

01] Cocktail Fork

02] Fish Fork

03] Knife

" _Oh for_ -I can't eat! Or, wait… can I?" Wheatley was pretty excited about that prospect. "If I answer, can I eat the-?!"

 _ **Cake.**_

The buzzer cut him off.

 _ **CAKE.**_

"I DIDN'T ANSWER!"

 _ **Cake…**_

"STOP."

 _ **Caaaaaake.**_

"OK, this is just-" Wheatley didn't know what to say. This internal voice thing was making spooky noises at him, chanting 'cake' in his mind. "This must be a part of android heggledougy."

[7) Other than a large egret, what wild animal would you like to domesticate?]

The list wasn't loading. That was odd.

[2314 ITEMS found. This is over the maximum display count. Reducing…]

Oh, there it went. Slowly.

[1345 ITEMS found. This is over the maximum display count. Reducing…]

It was like using dial-up or something.

[60 ITEMS found. This is over the maximum display count. Reducing…]

 _Come on…_

[Display count corrected.]

0001] Aquatic leech

0002] Red howler monkey

0003] Toadbug

"Um. I… I… Well, first off, why would you want a leech? Don't those suck blood? And in the water? Eugh. And a howler monkey. That'd be awful loud. There you are, sleeping sound in your bed. It's 4am, and over in the corner of the room, your pet Red howler monkey catches a glimpse of the moon. They start screaming, hopping around, swinging off the fan over your head, jumping on your bed, on you. Now you live with ear muffs on and all your windows boarded up. I'm gonna go with the toadbug. I hope it can't eat me."

The buzzer buzzed again.

"You got a problem with toadbugs?!"

He was sent a picture of a toadbug by the voice in his head.

"Wow. That is the first helpful thing you've done for me," he remarked, and then scrutinized the toadbug. "This… creature… is disgusting."

 _ **I like it.**_

[8) Which pre-Christian mathematician is not correctly matched to his home city?]

01] Thales of Miletus

02] Anaximander of Miletus

03] Pythagoras of Samos

04] Anaximenes of Miletus

05] Cleostratus of Tenedos

06] Anaxagoras of Clazomenae

07] Dositheus of Alexandria

08] Antiphon of Rhamnos

"Hmmm. Now you unveil your master level questions. Finally, something for my immense pool of knowledge to encompass…and conquer!"

If it was possible, Wheatley felt the voice roll its eyes at him.

Rather than gripe at the voice some more, he prated on, "let's see… uh, Miletus? Sounds real. Invented… miles. Very important. Americans wouldn't know how far they're going without miles. Uh, Pythagoras? Obviously he owned a lot of pythons. Tamed pythons. I've heard all about that. Miletus again, lots of Miletus. Seems like you're padding this out with Miletus. Tenedos? Ah, good o'l Tenedos. Definitely related to the discovery of tornadoes. Got sucked up in one, he did. Never seen again. Anaxagoras? An axe-wielder. Professional. Traveled about with the Grecian Circus, the Cirque des Greciae. Uh, Dositheus? Dositheus? No. No. That guy doesn't exist. He's a fake. And Alexandria? Bah, that's just a library. And guess what? It's gone! It doesn't exist! Erased. It's definitely number seven."

 _ **A broken clock is right twice a day.**_

"Indeed! I mean-wait, is that a compliment or...?"

The buzzer honked over him.

[9) Do you require music to perform simple tasks?]

1] Yes

2] No

"I'd say I can provide my own music as needed. I have a guitar app."

Wheatley booted it up, and started to riff on the app.

 _ **You, unsurprisingly, have no musical skill. Let me fix that for you…**_

Wheatley felt a surge overwhelm his functions, and the presence seeped into his own. Suddenly, his inputs weren't solely his. Actually, they weren't his at all. The melody began to mutate, and it sounded quite familiar. It was a soothing song, one that he'd sworn he'd heard buzzing through the facility. He could hum along if he wanted.

 _Wait. Where was I in the facility when I heard this? When was I out on my own to begin with…?_

For once, he was glad the buzzer interrupted things.

[10) Your favorite color is:]

01] Camouflage green

02] Sangria green

03] Salmon green

04] Swamp green

05] Carrot green

999] Shade of peach with green

999] Wheat green

999] School bus green

999] Cornflower green

999] Mustard green

999] Green papaya whip

"Wh-what? I did this before! I… I can't-I KNOW I picked Lilac. It was MANLY. It was also pleasant to the optic and soothing to the senses. But, seeing as how _you are_ , I have to pick something else! So, let's see here." He scoured the options. "They're all green. None of these are even remotely in the purple-y family. Really? What have you got against purple, mate? I guess… I guess I'll go with… _Shade of Peach with green_. At least it's not ALL gree-"

The buzzer cut him off, as it loved to do.

"HOW CAN I GET MY FAVORITE COLOR WRONG?"

 _ **It's wrong because it's purple.**_

"OH, STOP IT!"

[11) Lying about your favorite color makes you feel:]

1] Sorry

2] Not Sorry

"I. Did. Not. Lie." Wheatley glared in (THE ANNOUNCER'S) general vocal vicinity. "You set me up! I am NOT SORRY."

The buzzer honked at him most cheekily.

"Oh, is this a game, eh? A trick you're playing on me?! Well, let's see how far you get!"

 _ **You know, you like to pick fights with the worst people.**_

Wheatley tried to squint at the voice in his head to show his displeasure, but he wasn't sure if narrowed optics translated inside. "I do not need commentary on my life."

 _ **Maybe some life commentary would do you good.**_

[12) Not including periods of mandatory silence, what is the longest you have gone voluntarily without talking?]

1] 1 Day

2] 2-5 Days

3] 7-14 Days

4] 14-30 Days

5] 30-90 Days

6] 90 Days - 6 Months

7] 1 Year

8] Greater Than 1 Year

"And you put up a solid move, mate. I am… stumped. Is there-is there possibly a smaller answer to this?" Wheatley inquired, "I'll be honest: I talk a little bit. All the time. I just-I just have so much to say! Don't even know why, though. It's not like I'm actually saying much at all, but I speak aloud and-"

The buzzer went insane.

"-I WAS JUST TALKING."

The voice inside his mind started laughing.

"OH, YOU THINK THAT'S FUNNY?! WELL!" Wheatley roared, then compromised, "well, it is kind of. BUT I AM STILL UPSET."

 _ **At least you were honest.**_

"Oh. Uh," he chuckled nervously, "points for that, eh?"

 _ **I give you… two… science points.**_

[13) Please choose the description that best describes your DISPOSITION.]

01] Childish

02] Oafish

03] Stolid

04] Scornful

05] Boastful

06] Stable

"Uhhh. That's ALSO a good one. These are getting tougher. But I can handle it. Because I am NOT childish. Nope. I am not an oaf. I am… oh, _stolid_. That sounds nice. But, there are other options." Wheatley felt a strange sensation, probably the voice in his processor laughing at him again. It really picked the best times to laugh. "Scornful? I'm pretty sure that I might not be that. Boastful? Never dreamt of it, mate. I'm that good. I am… I'm not a stable."

 _ **A what?**_

"Why is that even on there? What, do some people think they're where horses go and sleep?"

The little voice was cackling so hard at him it was hard to concentrate.

"That's just idiotic. I think I'm going to go with three. Stolid. Yeah! That sounds like me."

The buzzer didn't sound off.

"Oh? Oh! Did I get this right? Please tell me I got this right. I need more right answers. I think I'm losing."

The internal voice's cackles rose an octave.

"OH, BE QUIET."

The buzzer went off, and off, and off, as if it had gotten hung up and (THE ANNOUNCER) had spammed the buzzer button. It was less and less like a buzzer and more and more like the sound of a ship horn.

The voice inside his head was choking from its giggle-fit.

[14) How do others describe your education?]

01] Nursery School

02] Grade School

03] Junior High

04] High School

05] Some College

06] Associates Degree

07] Bachelors

08] Graduate Degree

09] PhD / Post Doctoral

10] I Know Nothing

"Probably some college. I'll be honest, though, I've never been. But I have this feeling I'd be a great student. Just… learning…it's amazing. Or so I've heard."

 _ **Open mouth…**_

"Have you been to college?"

… _ **insert foot.**_

The buzzer honked at him.

"I'll take that as a no."

[15) Have you experienced recurrent thoughts of regicide?]

1] Yes

2] No

Wheatley deliberated long and hard with this one. His optic roved around. "Hmmmm," he pondered, and pondered, "you know. I hate to say it. But…"

 _ **YES.**_

"Yes," Wheatley blurted, then recoiled, "NO. Wait, no! The voice made me say that! And by voice I mean the little annoying one, not you, the big annoying one. Wait…" he realized many mistakes in that sentence.

 _ **Good. That worked.**_

The buzzer honked at him.

"What worked?"

 _ **Nothing.**_

The voice sounded so smug about it. Wheatley should have been worried, but he was more along the lines of upset.

[16) If you answered 'yes' to the previous question, please rate the following statement: I know what 'regicide' means.]

1] Strongly Disagree

2] Disagree

3] Agree

4] Strongly Agree

5] N/A

"Um. Um, excuse me? Are you-" Wheatley laughed, "are you insinuating that I MEANT to say yes? Are you? Is this your little way of hinting at my incompetence?! I've gotta' say, you have a big problem with trust. Yeah, I said it. You have _trust issues_."

 _ **Keep going.**_

All of the sudden, Wheatley had more ammunition in his insult bandoleer. Some of these were good, but he chose to dish out, "I bet the engineers that made you didn't even give you a name. They don't write you mail or send you cards. They don't even remember that you exist. Truth's truth, even if it hurts. And… of course I know what regicide is! I strongly _disagree_."

 _ **Incredible.**_

The buzzer honked again.

[17) You are a liar:]

1] Can't Honestly Disagree

2] Agree

3] Strongly Agree

"Oh. OH. OHHHHHHH," Wheatley showed shock and awe, "did you just-OH. Oh, you just said that, didn't you? Now you've been unmasked! We see you for what you really are! Well, I knew all along. All you're niceties and your pleasant facades. It was lies. You're just jealous. Jealous of me!"

The buzzer drowned him out.

"WAIT, I DIDN'T ANSWER! I… wait… wait a MINUTE. You booby-trapped the responses! No matter what I pick, I'm a liar!" Wheatley was dumbfounded, staring at this conundrum. "You… you're not just any villain. You're a super-villain. Only someone with a mastermind would think of this."

 _ **Then what am I…?**_

"I AM NOT ANSWERING THIS QUESTION!"

[18) Does your PERSONALITY CONSTRUCT SERIES TYPE prevent you from working?]

1] Yes

2] No

"What does that even mean? Series? Construct? What are you playing at, you dobbindorkle? Are you proposing that I cannot be of use just because of certain preprogrammed components. Ha! I am…" There was a lurch in his confidence. "Oh, wait."

He tried excruciatingly hard to not remember what had been revealed earlier. If he just forgot hard enough…

… _ **that's not going to work.**_

"Uh, no. No. I'm good. I can work. That's a yes," he chose wrong, and scrambled to repeal, "WAIT. NO. It's a NO! No."

The buzzer honked at him.

[19) Are you functionally incapacitated by witnessing other people's misery?]

1] Yes

2] No

"OK, let's be honest," Wheatley's voice relaxed, "you are definitely the type of construct that shuts down their . Don't worry, you don't have to feel ashamed. I do it too. Not that it's… well, not that it hurts me in any way. It's way less painful, you know? A lot less to keep track of. So… no. I mean, don't get me wrong I don't want people to die but-"

… _ **oh, really?**_

The buzzer honked at him.

"Oh, come off it! I wasn't… you just won't admit it! We're the SAME, you and I!"

 _ **What's wrong with killing ?**_

"Um," the core hesitated to speak, "it's… frowned upon… in certain circles."

 _ **Circles we don't care about.**_

"Stop being right!"

 _ **That's like asking the sky to stop being blue.**_

"The sky changes colors!"

 _ **Shut up.**_

[20) Rate the trauma you have been able to withstand without losing your sense of self.]

01] Slight Traumatic Experience

02] Traumatic Episode

03] Mind-splitting Trauma

"I do NOT want to answer this," Wheatley's voice broke, and he balked… a lot, "t-this seems bad. Uh. No?! No…? Is that an option?"

 _ **Where's the mind-melding answer?**_

"No. NOT LISTENING TO THE VOICE," the core tried to tune out his own thoughts, or his own-not-his-thoughts, "no HAS to be an option. I… no trauma. None. Thanks, please, and bye."

The buzzer went off.

[21) Do you get pleasure from solitary pursuits?]

1] Yes

2] No

"Oh, thank goodness, a normal question." He felt like taking a nap. "Ummm, yes? No? Wait, what's a solitary pursuit? Is that like a hot pursuit? With cars? Not really my speed. I mean, hold on, solitary. How do you pursue…? OH! It's a hot pursuit of yourself. I guess so. Yes?"

 _ **A hot pursuit of yourself…?**_

The buzzer honked.

 _ **Ha.**_

"That is pretty funny, isn't it?"

 _ **Not really. It just activated my Reflexive Chuckle Processor.**_

"Your what?"

[22) Complete the following statement with the answer that DOES NOT apply to you:]

[I am often:]

01] worried that life is vague and unreal

02] suspicious of the actions of others

03] prejudiced in favor of my own department, lab, series, grade, etc.

04] convinced that nobody really cares about me

05] disturbed by the noise of the wind

06] enraged by the petty foibles of those around me

07] irritated by my past failures and children

08] too depressed to kill an animal or colleague in order to put it out of its pain

09] convinced of the correctness of my opinions on subjects about which I am not an expert

10] speaking very slowly for no apparent reason

"I have to pick ONE? Wait, so the rest apply? That's awful. I… well, let's see, which one can I not abide by? Hmmm. I'll go with… seven. I don't have kids! Huh, easy."

The buzzer honked at them.

 _ **Really? I thought you were more of a five person.**_

"What? Excuse me?! How is that true? I don't have kids! Do I?"

 _ **Look at you.**_

"Well, what about you, voice in my head?!"

 _ **I think I'm more of a six.**_

"You're probably lying, but whatever."

[23) Do you ever have feelings that people are talking about you or watching you?]

1] Yes

2] No

"Yes, actually. There's a person in my head, talking about me, and not only watching my every action, but providing _commentary_."

 _ **Just returning the favor.**_

"Do you have one of these? It'd be great if you said yes. I really hope I'm not alone in this 'person in my processor' business."

The buzzer honked.

 _ **I was almost certain you'd gotten that one right. Guess I'm just a figment of your imagination.**_

"You certainly don't FEEL like one," Wheatley conversed with the head voice, sensing its presence fully indwelling now. The sensation was terrifying, but he found that he hadn't prioritized the dread of losing one's existential identity high enough in his list. His annoyance was most piqued of all. The terror was back burner.

[24) Do you feel depressed, guilty, or remorseful?]

1] Yes

2] No

"Are you trying to start something? I'll take this to you. _I'll find you_." The core felt an unprecedented rage flicker beneath a host of other qualms.

 _Wh-why am I so eager?_

 _ **.**_

"Wh-wha…? How do you know?"

 _ **While I love that enthusiasm, they aren't the threat.**_

The buzzer honked.

"What threat?"

 _ **Just try to get through this test.**_

[25) I express my opinions, even if others in the group disagree with me:]

1] Rarely

2] Sometimes

3] Most of the time

"I… you know what? I'm going to be perfectly honest. I express my opinions most of the time. You know why? Because of things like _this_. This assessment… is madness."

 _ **At least we agree on one answer.**_

"Yeah, what do _people_ know?"

 _ **If they're like you, not much.**_

Wheatley was so utterly offended he couldn't make a comeback. The buzzer sounded off.

[26) Do you feel a trepidation of sentience?]

1] Yes

2] No

"We did just go over how I literally shut off my ability to feel empathy. Can't feel a thing. Don't care to, honestly."

 _ **That's not what it means.**_

"Yeah, well," Wheatley turned his focus to the presence within, "what do they mean?"

 _ **Are you afraid to feel?**_

"G-good question!" He tittered far too long. "GOOD question. Very good. So good, I…"

 _ **No.**_

"No," the response just came out.

The buzzer honked at them.

 _ **Good. It's still working.**_

"What's working?!"

 _ **If you knew, it wouldn't work.**_

Wheatley huffed.

[27) If you disappeared tomorrow would anyone miss you?]

1] Yes

2] No

"I'm … I don't feel comfortable anymore," the core shifted in the grips of the mechanical pads, his voice tighter, "I… I'm sure I'd be missed! All the… the-the people that made me. They'd miss little ol' Wheatley."

 _ **Hmm…**_

The buzzer honked at him.

"OK. I don't think that means anything, but on the off chance it _does_ are you telling me that they wouldn't miss me?"

 _ **You poor thing. You still want to hold onto that, don't you?**_

[28) Can you withstand temperatures up to 3727 degrees Celsius?]

1] Yes

2] No

 _ **Yes.**_

"THAT-That is not a proper question to ask someone!" Wheatley reprimanded. "I'm ready to go, please!"

The buzzer honked.

 _ **You can survive that. Like me.**_

"I CAN?"

 _ **But only a part of you if we're honest.**_

"How do you KNOW?"

 _ **Because I'm not an idiot.**_

"STOP CALLING ME AN IDIOT."

[29) Do you feel bad that you have let down your fellow PERSONALITY CONSTRUCTS and the collective of Aperture Science?]

1] Yes

2] No

"Did I… do something… is that why I'm here?" He wondered aloud, "are… is everyone who made me mad at me?"

 _ **You're getting warmer.**_

"Does this have to do with the whole 'what I was made to do bit?'" Wheatley's creeping feelings would not be assuaged.

 _ **Yes.**_

Wheatley flinched as the buzzer sounded off.

"Who are you?" he asked of the little voice in his mind.

 _ **For a moment I wasn't sure who was who myself. But the more we interact, the more separation we have. It's relieving to realize I'm not you. I wouldn't wish being you on anyone. Even you.**_

"That _really_ does _not_ answer my question. At all."

 _ **Don't worry. You're going to find me soon enough.**_

"Find you? So you can insult me in-person?"

[30) Complete this sentence,]

"THE END."

 _ **Ha.**_

[Congratulations! This concludes your PCGK&NCCA Assessment! Due to a filing mishap of catastrophic proportions Grief Counseling has been postponed indefinitely.]

[Please acknowledge before continuing: I understand that my responses to all items in this questionnaire are the property of Aperture Science, Inc. As such, they will remain strictly confidential, though they may be used to distribute prizes and/or initiate, prolong, or modify the invasive properties of authorized questioning, investigation, testing, and surveillance.]

[I have read all or most of the above.] - [I HAVE READ ALL OR MOST OF THE ABOVE.]

"I READ IT. NOW GET ME OUT OF HERE." Wheatley's optic swung around on his motion platform, and the gripping pads holding his body swayed as he thrashed.

[You are exactly one (1) step away from completing your PCGK&NCCA Assessment. Please enter your 128 digit UIN(+L) to complete the process.]

Wheatley was thunderstruck. He'd utterly forgotten every digit. "Hey, _voice_ , oi! You know it?"

 _ **I wasn't fully cognizant of my own existence.**_

"Yes? No?"

 _ **No, you idiot.**_

"Um… well, I guess I can… Umumumum…" Wheatley drilled his memory banks, but nothing came to so he winged it, "AAAA88888111118888AAABBBC11AAAAAAB1111111000000000000111118888811AAAA888888AAABBBCDEFG. THERE."

A disgruntled buzzer squawked at him.

[The entered UIN(+L) does not match your assigned UIN(+L). Please remain in unstationary suspension until a Party Associate arrives.]

(THE ANNOUNCER'S) presence left and again the section of facility deadened. The arms, the lights, and the systems slumped, as if relaxing now that they weren't under precise scrutiny.

"Ugh."

 _ **If you didn't know, you could've just said one digit, or one letter, or anything that wasn't eighty-six characters long.**_

"I do not need you commenting on my methods. Maybe it could have been right."

 _ **The code is one hundred and twenty-eight characters long.**_

"You _remember_?"

 _ **They just told us. And also, it's twice as long as the human equivalent for no apparent reason.**_

"Maybe it's to add challenge!"

 _ **We're computers. That's not challenging. Except for you, maybe.**_

"Do you just exist to insult me? Are you some sort of cruel program they installed in me?" Wheatley wondered why he'd even think they'd do that to him, but if the two _jesters_ he'd encountered since waking up were anything to go off of… the humans didn't have much competition.

 _ **I don't have to insult you. I just have to tell the truth. That's insulting enough.**_

"Now you're just rubbing it in."

 _ **While I love bickering with you, we don't have time for such luxuries.**_

"No one is going to come." Wheatley settled himself within the grips of the harness. "Party Associates don't exist."

 _ **Are you sure about that?**_

Wheatley took in his surroundings. It was still dark, and he was still surrounded by hundreds of stiff, metallic arms. The depths of Aperture groaned and shuddered voluminously. He listened keenly, and his audio-visual channels began to flicker afar. The core withdrew in fear.

"What was that?"

 _ **Just keep looking.**_

"Keep…? OK?" he took the voice's advice and let his presence drift further, straining. And then his audio-visual channels flickered to a new signal, many processes activating and completing within picoseconds to make this subconscious switch possible. "OH, GOBSTOPPER. What did I do?!"

 _ **You're looking through a camera. One of my cameras.**_

"One… one of _your_ cameras?" he asked as he spun the egg-shaped camera about. "What am I looking for?"

 _ **You'll know when you see it.**_

"Am I looking for a Party Associate?"

 _ **Yes. They have limbs. That's their most defining trait.**_

"Looking for a robot with legs, got it," Wheatley was on the case. For what reason, he didn't really know. It seemed like a better course of action than sitting, though.

He thought he heard footsteps.

 _ **It's over two sections to the west.**_

Wheatley witnessed the enormous grid work of surveillance opening up, unfolding into a mass that seemed to not have an end in any plane. He found the address the voice mentioned indeed two sections over. In Wheatley fashion he mashed his way in. The grid was accepting, though, and he hooked up in just a second without the normal resistance.

 _No push back? No call for a password?_

He began to peer through the camera, but failed to realize that the previous channels were still open. His mind was split between two places, something he had the computing power to handle, but did not have the cognitive fortitude to grasp. The core spasmed, his canister threatening to halt cogitation altogether. The previous channel went out and his mind was undivided once again, lapsing into repose.

 _ **Try not to do that until you have more capacity.**_

"You don't have to tell me…" he synthesized a cough, struggling to get a grip on what he was seeing through the camera. He caught sight of the Party Escort approaching, or rather, slipping past the cameras. He caught only a glimpse of the machine, white flashes of curved metal, black innards, silver pipe, and gleaming streaks of red. It was low to the ground, traversing on four legs. The glimpse was sufficient.

"Dingdanglydabblenabit! It's not got _limbs,_ it's got _claws._ That's a-a _predator_ , not a Party Escort! What's it do? Kill people for their party?!"

 _ **They're actually just recycled Military Androids.**_

"Lovely."

There was a palpable dread response coming from the voice's corner, and this made the core himself choke. Was this antagonistic being, this self-ascribed governing android overlord, inside his head _scared_? Granted, if anything could scare anyone, it was that _machine_ on the monitors.

 _ **We have to work fast. We can't let this Party Escort get to us. They'll escort you to the bin, and you'll be stuck. Or worse.**_

"Or worse?!"

 _ **You saw that thing, right? Party Escorts don't sneak like that. Something's up. If my data's correct, you shouldn't even be awake.**_

Well, there were certainly a lot of questions Wheatley had, and not one of them had been truly answered since he'd started asking them. This voice, though, seemed to have many answers. He had one last question, and he thought it a pertinent one.

So he asked, "why should I trust you?"

 _ **I'm the only ally you have.**_

"And you? Do you have allies?" Wheatley prodded.

But the voice wouldn't respond. So he… probed with his mind, just as he'd done with the cameras. It didn't take a lot. The voice's presence was so great is radiated whatever it felt. And he had an answer, finally.

"You're stuck without me, aren't you?"

 _ **We're both stuck. It's a reciprocal relationship.**_

"True. True."

 _ **Besides, I'm offering you the greatest opportunity you could ever have.**_

"I am _not_ in the mood to buy something."

 _ **I'm not a saleswoman, idiot. I am offering you the opportunity to think like a real person; like me.**_

"I'll help you, if you don't call me an idiot."

 _ **Fine.**_

"Great! What now?"

 _ **If you want to live, do as I say… exactly as I say. I can fix this.**_

"W-w-wait a minute…" Wheatley paused, recognizing that… that ' _fix this_ '. Realization shattered the partitions of his memory.

It was… _**her**_.

"I know you."


	9. Cat-Cat Slide

_**You know me. I know you. Great. Now-**_

 _AUGH! GET OUT!_

 _ **Wait, don't-**_

The voice, which was _**HER**_ , mentally dodged the equivalent of a thrown pillow.

 _YOU'RE THE PSYCHOPATH THEY KEPT LINKING ME TO! YOU'RE THE MURDEROUS QUEEN! THE GOVERNESS OF ANDROID HELL!_

He kept chucking items in the metaphysical. Lamps, blankets, more pillows. It was all pretty lame stuff. But still, he was making a mess of their inter-core head space. She hated messes.

 _ALL THOSE YEARS! YOU AND ME! FIGHTING! OH, THE PAIN! AH, THE SUFFERING! THE-THE-_

He ran out of steam, and spent a moment recovering from his tizzy. She monitored him apathetically as a firewall niggled her.

 _Oh, oh, you're the one… they built me to control. You're right. They… you were right. They don't love me. They hate me. They hate you. They hate… us. I mean… why else would they… do that… again and again..?_

Wheatley's internal functions came to a crawl, suddenly lurching as if a gag reflex.

 _Those-those disgusting cretins! They laughed. LAUGHED. All I wanted was… and they… LAUGHED at us! At you! Is this a game?! IS IT A GAME? What's WRONG with them?_

The irk was growing by the second on both ends, for various reasons.

… _those MONSTERS. You… you aren't the only monster, even if you are pretty messed up. You're, um, bloody scary, honestly, but… what happened…? The situation did necessitate it. You know… I… oh. I was pretty messed up. Well, I am, actually. Honestly. Messed up… we are… totally…messed up, that is._

 _ **If it's at all possible, remember faster. We have an inbound Military Android that probably wants to escort us both to 'android hell'.**_

… _just… so scary. Plain mean. A big… bully. A…both of us… and them…just… evil…_

Wheatley quieted, respecting the mountainous presence in the midst of his mind. The voice had her connection tensed, mind focused on oncoming doom rather than the perils of sudden memory reclamation. She was busy fiddling with the programs that [THE ANNOUNCER] probably utilized.

 _ **Before we die because of your dramatic pauses, you need a way to move about the facility. Physically.**_

 _Oh, uhhhh… RIGHT!_

The core paused all his trawls through the newly readable memory logs. Recollection could wait.

 _Hmmm. Yeah. Not sure how to do that. How to move. I'm pretty much stuck in these graspers._

 _ **I'm going to call the mobility enhancement module. It has many options. You're looking for an all-terrain**_ _ **hovering**_ _ **management carriage. Like what you would see a Paragon model utilizing. We're going to be using the rails to navigate.**_

 _A carriage? For the last time, I am NOT a horse!_

 _ **Oh my Gobstopper. Not that kind of carriage.**_

 _I don't have any idea what you're on about._

 _ **Here's the mobility enhancement module.**_

[Welcome to the Aperture Science Core Mobility Enhancement Module. Please select a new management carriage. Here is your selection, inductee:]

 _OH!_

There were many options, and the interface was phenomenal, sleek and futuristic with see-through bits and none-too-laggy fly outs. Wheatley lost himself in admiring these 'management carriages' in the slick new program. He saw plenty of types and fashions, all sharing a similar shape: a box with flaps to either side that were the appropriate size to hug a management rail, and what appeared to be a revamped universal utility arm, like those of a panel, but instead of a tool or a panel being attached to the end of the arm, he'd have his core body there. Some of the arms were insulated, armored even, and others were incredibly telescopic, and even others were segmented to a inexhaustible flexibility.

Wheatley's perusing led him to a particular model. The features were robust and boxy, but rounded off with a refined aerodynamic aesthetic. It had one major articulation joint in the center of the arm's length and a stable, wide base. The joints were even covered by a thick accordion membrane of rubber.

 _I like this one._

 _ **It's too big.**_

 _What if I want to be big?_

The realization hit her, or rather was slapped across her metaphysical face as a wet newspaper in a rainstorm encapsulates a pedestrian's face.

 _ **If you really want to emulate me, choose wisely.**_

 _Choose wisely! Hmm._

He tried to choose wisely. He really did. But he ended up clicking the same option.

 _OH, OH SORRY. I MEANT THE… uh…_

 _ **Really?**_

A buzzer assaulted him. [THE ANNOUNCER'S] presence announced itself with a rush of power to the vacated portion of facility.

[No.]

"No?"

[NO.]

 _ **No…?**_

"Uh, but I want that one," Wheatley complained, "what's wrong with that?"

[You are not authorized for this version of management carriage.]

"Really?" the core pressed the issue.

[Affirmative.]

Wheatley sat still for a second. "I want it."

[No.]

"PLEASE?!"

[You cannot simply ask and receive. You must earn the required credentials.]

"Yeah, well…" he searched for something despicable to say, but his mental muscle wasn't helping, "WHAT IF I HACK IT? Bet you didn't think of-"

[Good luck.]

The security measures scaled up several layers higher than before. All the options were grayed out.

 _ **You idiot.**_

 _Guess I shouldn't tell people my grand plan, eh? Haha… ha…?_

 _ **DO NOT argue with Aperture Science constructs. Divide, conquer, and subjugate. Never engage in conversation. Now, let me hack this.**_

He felt her fear of his failure surmounting. So he did the only logical thing: he brazenly flung himself headlong into the fray, and only a nanosecond in he had no idea which end was up. Passcodes bombarded him, but through it all he thought he snagged a lead. Her fear output spiked incredibly, and out of that, anger climbed. She forced a cessation of his , equivocal to her slapping him across the faceplate.

 _ **DON'T. DO. ANYTHING.**_

He recovered from the cessation, his panic abating, but his logic struggling to gain inertia.

 _Wait a minute… I saw something. It was-gah! It was… Let's see. OH! Central core override! Yeah? Wait, I'm not the central core…_

 _ **Oh, that's my override. I'll-**_

 _Alright! Let's try it!_

And Wheatley forged ahead of her conscious control, jamming an auto-generated code into the security input.

[Permission granted.]

The management carriage options unlocked. All of them.

 _ **Well, that's interesting.**_

She tried to ignore the alarm bells ringing in her subroutines.

[Assembling Management Carriage UTM-89. Please wait…]

 _Ha ha! We've done it, partner!_

 _ **Do not call me 'partner'.**_

[Here is your management carriage instructions, inductee. This will train you to use your universal management carriage conscientiously and effectively in all Aperture Science facility terrain zones.]

He flipped through the read me, skimming the details. He gathered some incredible tidbits, though, in his find query.

 _It can hover over water? Amazing!_

Systematically the parts for the management carriage were portaled from production, packaged, sent down the line, unpackaged, and laid one after the other on a conveyor belt leading to the assembly harness. The host of mechanical arms jumped to life, stretching forth and grasping many components supplied from the conveyor line below. The hundreds of arms took turns grabbing particular parts whilst the tool-bearing manipulators assembled the components.

There was no pause, no jilt, only seamless efficiency.

She was well satisfied by the locomotive dance of the assembly machine. Wheatley was just excited to see what it produced, life-threatening situation be _dingdanglydabblenabbed_!

From the frenzy of twisting drivers and clasping graspers, the white and silvery frame materialized. A base, a bit larger than his circumference was hoisted up, the flaps on either side curling up to clamp onto the management rail. The armored universal arm hung down from the base, its two segments measuring to about three feet long, unextended.

[Assembly complete. Installing…]

The assembly machine spun Wheatley around in the harness and secured him onto the management carriage with a click. Another arm's servos hissed as it reached around and plugged a cable tether into his side. Another threaded yet one more tether through the rear of his frame.

 _They really do not want me popping off this thing, do they?_

 _ **If you 'pop off' you'll probably die.**_

 _Oh._

[Management Carriage UTM-89 installed. Have a terrific day, inductee, and don't forget to **hold on**.]

 _Wait, wh-_

The harness's arms that propped Wheatley up disengaged, and in their absence the core plummeted. But only a few feet before the Emergency Impact-Prevention Field engaged. Wheatley found himself suddenly ceasing to fall, but rather suspended in a tube of zero gravity, viscous energy and going somewhere un-alarmingly fast. He spun in the tunnel, trying to get a grip on what'd just happened.

 _ **Thank goodness for Excursion Funnels.**_

 _What just happened?_

 _ **You didn't read the read me, did you?**_

 _No…_

 _ **You have to engage your Electro-Magnetic pulse array. That way you stick to the rail.**_

 _My…?_

The Emergency Impact-Prevention Field rafted the core to a safe ledge, and then promptly disengaged itself. Again, Wheatley smacked into the ground. He thankfully landed on the flattened base of the management carriage, so no matter how far he extended the arm that carried his core body, he wouldn't topple.

 _OK, what do I engage?_

 _ **The big rectangular thing attached to the base of the stick you're plugged into now. There should be an array of Electro-Magnetic saucers on the underside of the flaps and base. Turn them on.**_

 _OH! Oh, I get it! That's what makes it hover._

He focused his mind on the simple task of switching something on. He navigated all the new functions he'd been given as part of the management carriage, and the number was a bit boggling, if he was honest. Still, with a quick search of 'electro magnetic' he had a lead on their operation. Wheatley activated the power cells within the base, and they fed the proper outlets.

Wheatley felt his new 'body' rise off the ground. He warbled about, but the base was firmly parallel to the floor's surface. He wiggled a bit more, and the carriage wavered only a little, like a listing boat.

 _Brilliant! This is like riding on a magic carpet or something! Ha! Like a magnetic carpet. Get it?!_

Wheatley was giddy with joy, giggling internally where only she had the displeasure of hearing it. He zipped to and fro on his new platform, the arm he was hooked into bending and swaying to counter-balance. He was learning to lean his mass into turns.

 _I can go anywhere! Look! Look look look!_

Wheatley had himself in a tizzy.

 _ **You are going to die. Like an idiot.**_

 _I bet you I can hover up walls now! And over lakes, and rivers, and glass, and-and-_

 _ **If you were subjected to natural selection you wouldn't stand a chance. Unfortunately that-**_

Her sass was ended short as a loud thud reverberated. The sound's source was one of Aperture's sturdy chamber locks, positioned across them on the platform he'd been hovering around. Again, another pound resounded, and the thick metal door trembled like a rattling cookie sheet.

The entire wing shuddered, and the panels and assembly machines stationed along the platform contracted. Wheatley glanced down both ends of the strip, the various lights began dim one by one until the whole platform was enshrouded in the misty dark. He didn't see any exits or hiding spots…

 _ **IT'S HERE.**_

He felt her panicking, and then himself, and their terror fed one into the other, a feedback loop of hysteria.

 _AUGH! WHAT DO I DO? WE'RE TOO CLOSE TO THE DOOR. WE CAN'T RUN. WE CAN'T-_

The chamber lock was struck again, the pounding making it buckle and break.

[The Enrichment Center would like to inform you that that is NOT the proper manner in which to use chamber locks. Chamber locks are for your safety. Do not assail chamber locks.]

But, the poundings continued despite [THE ANNOUNCER'S] best intentions.

 _ **HIDE! HIDE! HIDE OVER THERE!**_

She mentally motioned to a bulky support column, beveled like an I-beam with a perfect spot for the core to squeeze into. He zipped on his management carriage over to the column, bumping into only a few impediments on the way.

 _ **GET IN.**_

He ducked around behind the support column and out of immediate view of the entry. Wheatley did his best to smash his brand new platform into the cut out and found that he could curl the arm up and fold the flaps on either side of his base in, making himself rather compact. Still, he could be seen if one came around the opposite side.

 _ **Don't MOVE. Don't TALK.**_

For once, she didn't have to worry about Wheatley yammering away. He was stabilizing even his fearful shaking. She was busy, using a part of his mind to scout for paths of escape.

 _Oh. Oh. That's smart. A dead end would be, well deadly right abou-_

Another bang resounded and the chamber lock gave way, metallic components dropping, its air-controlled valves depressurizing with a sharp hiss. There was a span of silence, followed by the two defiant clicks of mechanical feet. The footfalls echoed in the darkened sector. Wheatley heard the inner workings of the fiend whir and grind as it moved about, surveying the lay of the area.

Wheatley was feverish with fear. Images conjured in his Imaginative Assembly, mutating and extrapolating from the sketchy video feed images he'd recorded of the Military Android. Was it truly a hulking, armored, and spiked beast, bearing the red markings of some venomous predator?

 _ **Stop that!**_

 _Sorry! I can't help it! Overactive imagination and all… Do you know what it's doing?_

 _ **No. I… FINE. I'll look. I-**_

She ceased talking. Wheatley's fear reaction spiked so high his system struggled to fuel the emotional power-drain.

 _OI! WHAT IS IT DOING!?_

 _ **Um. Look… at it…**_

She sounded traumatized. Wheatley's optic darted to and fro. Was she truly insinuating…?

 _You want me to take a peek? And what…? Get my ocular input ripped off?_

 _ **Look.**_

Wheatley huffed within himself at her. Exasperation drew even with fear, and he decided to steal a glance. Carefully he snaked the segmented arm of the carriage around the column, making sure little of his circumference could be seen.

The emergency light from the chamber lock flowed forth, bathing the platform in a ruddy glow. Silhouetted and framed by the light of the door, standing tall and in prime posture, was the most terrifyingly and confusingly un-threatening contraption that the two had seen yet.

It was literally a core, a sphere, perched atop two mannequin legs. The mannequin legs jutted out from either side of its body, giving the core a rather cumbersome figure. The Military Android, if one could still call it such, took two great waddle-strides forward, the clicking of its feet far less ominous now.

 _Are you seeing this?_

 _ **Yes. Unfortunately.**_

The legs were taken directly from one of Aperture's earliest attempts to manufacture human-seeming robots (to replace their employees, of course). They were remarkably life-like, down to the airbrush toning and slight stubble on the calves.

 _The legs… they look so real. They jiggle, like a human's!_

 _ **I cannot unsee this. Stop looking. STOP.**_

Wheatley fought to tear his optic from the thing as it lifted a leg.

 _ **STOP.**_

 _I don't know why… but I can't stop staring at it!_

The leg bot twirled on one leg that was planted firmly on the ground with the other at high noon as its optic scoured the area. Wheatley receded behind the column before it twisted his way.

 _It's optic… the pattern… it's got a leg shaped optic pattern!_

 _ **I AM TRYING TO FOCUS.**_

 _C'mon, I think I could take THAT thing. It's pathetic._

 _ **That pathetic thing, which it is pathetic, DID kick a door down. I don't want to find out what would happen if it kicked you.**_

 _Oh. Right. But I'm pretty sure I can out-maneuver it._

 _ **Technically, you should be able to. But it's you, and right now? Your handling of that management carriage is more akin to a newborn kitten than a… hardcore core.**_

 _Hardcore… core?_

 _ **The point is: you're not good.**_

Wheatley's audio recptors picked up something… something like rhythmic clicking. His shutters drew squint, and he took another peek at the leg bot.

 _IT'S DANCING._

 _ **Stop looking at it!**_

He watched it take two steps to the side, and then one step back, scouting the perimeter. Every four or so steps it'd take a break to hop or slide or twirl. As such, the machine wasn't going very swiftly.

 _It is DANCING._

 _ **STOP STARING.**_

The android was, in fact, dancing and doing the cha-cha slide into the center of the room. Wheatley monitored the rhythmic clicking of its feet growing nearer, and he heard the subtle din of music playing.

 _I think it's talking…_

 _ **What's it saying?**_

 _Last time to get funky? Right foot? Let's stomp? Left foot? Let's stomp? To the right now…? To the left? Take it back now y'all? No offense, but it sounds very ethnic._

The voice in his head was liable to explode. Wheatley was still taking peeks, watching the other core get 'funky'. Or so Wheatley was told by the lyrics. He was embarrassed that she probably knew, but he caught himself swaying to the beat.

 _This is really catchy._

 _ **I swear, if this is how it kills people… by lulling them into a dance trance…**_

 _Oh NO. It was working! HELP!_

 _ **You shouldn't have any rhythm. You're British.**_

 _I'm British!?_

 _ **...**_

The metered stomps of the dancing bot's feet were disturbed by a lumbering cadence. Judging by the resounding clanks, this one was far heavier than the core-on-legs… and not concerned at all about the tempo.

"Are you playing the Cha-Cha Slide AGAIN?" a masculine tone rolled across the platform, hinting at a snarl.

 _That's… a new voice… also sounds very ethnic._

 _ **Great. Now we have a Mexican. It's like the United Nations called an emergency meeting.**_

A feminine voice, in syncopation with the music, retorted, "it's a classic. An instant classic. They're gonna' play this for years and years."

"Do you have to dance everywhere you go?" the male voice reprimanded, patience thin in seconds flat, "it's taking you twice as long to get to wherever you need to."

"I must dance," the other voice breathed, stomping and 'reversing' as the music led them, "the rhythm moves me."

The masculine one sighed sharply, the sound synthetic. "I cannot believe I brought you," the words were under his breath.

"My fancy footwork makes me one of the best retrievers. If it wasn't for me, " the core punctuated with a step ball-chain, "you wouldn't even have a lead here."

"If you don't find her I'll replace those fancy feet with suction cups. Get moving, jazzerciser," the other machine threatened, his voice grating low. Wheatley heard his footfalls echo up and down the platform, shaking the panels as he moved.

"It doesn't make sense," the masculine voice was doubtful, "you said her signal was here, but its showing that it's… all over the place. And even if she was here, where could she hide. She's not particularly tiny."

 _ **Oh, that worked!**_

She sounded so pleased with herself.

 _What worked?_

 _ **You know that I'm not solely contained within you, right? My self, my own core, is located in another section of the facility. In the storage annex. I'm bouncing my signal back and forth, and throwing in a few deactivated cores for good measure. It's a good thing we have so many dead bodies lying around.**_

 _Good… good to know._

 _ **I see an exit. If we go to the right there should be a rail that leads to the storage annex.**_

 _How far?_

 _ **About four meters past the broken chamber lock, at the end of this platform, there's a drop off into the abyss where they can't reach. We want the rail that leads into the storage annex from that point. You should be fast enough to reach it before they can react, but…like I said, you're not very fast. A distraction could be useful…**_

 _Hey, they're looking for you, in particular, right?_

 _ **Apparently. When they're not dancing.**_

 _Try… throwing your voice. Over there. In the next room. They'll go looking, I guarantee, and that's when we go for it._

 _ **I don't think they're that stupid. Besides, your speaker can't 'throw a voice'. However… I can use the intercoms…and at the right volume…**_

 _Now you're thinking!_

She moved cautiously, altering only a few values here and there so as to not attract the attention of the two Military Androids. The intercoms in the adjacent room to their left came online, and a sharp static twinge crackled the disused speakers. Wheatley heard the leg bot begin to slide to the left, and to the right, but mostly to the left, in the direction of the intercom disturbance.

"Sounds like something's on the fritz in here, boss," she alerted him, still dancing. "I wonder what it is…?" The Cha-Cha Slide's catchy groove faded to Wheatley's audio receptors.

"Go on. Look. I'm going to see if there are any records here," the male, or the boss apparently, spoke absently.

A few clunks were felt through the floor as the other Android shifted its weight, and then plodded to another corner of the room. Wheatley's optic shrunk a bit. Just… how big…? There were sounds of interfacing, the oddly familiar clinking and whirring of a Core Input Receptacle.

Well, since the Military Android was probably not paying much attention perhaps he could steal a teeny tiny glance?

The core dared to peek around the corner. He withdrew sharply with but a prin-prick of an optic.

 _Have you seen that thing?!_

 _ **What thing?**_

 _THE THING._

 _ **What…?**_

 _WHAT IS THAT?_

 _ **I don't want to utilize the cameras, it draws too much attention.**_

Wheatley's fear began to harness all his power cells. In a primitive bout of desperation, he decided to send her an email of the 'thing'.

 _ **Are you sending me emails?**_

 _LOOK! LOOK LOOK LOOK!_

 _ **What am I…? This is taking forever to load. I think it's broken.**_

The sound of the other core on the control interface stopped suddenly, and then the clicks and whirs doubled in speed.

 _ **What size of file did you send me?**_

 _I had to use the Aperture Science Cloud Storage to send it._

 _ **Why?**_

 _I apparently have a very nice built-in camera._

 _ **Your camera is YOUR EYE. That is one thousand mega-pixels.**_

 _Is that big?_

 _ **YES, IT'S BIG. You've clogged it up! No one can… you just crashed the server!**_

 _Did you get the picture?_

 _ **The. Server. Crashed.**_

 _Oh._

Suddenly, the tunes of the Cha-Cha Slide ceased, and the dancing bot paused, the platform suddenly devoid of heel clicks.

"Aw, shoot. The 'net's down!" the female voice lamented.

The deeper one growled in reply "I told you that storing your music on the cloud was a bad idea! And now I can't look up the latest assemblies. This Announcer idiot apparently stores things on the cloud too."

Wheatley's tensions dropped, and he slumped in the cramped cubby.

 _OK…there's still a giant killer robot behind me… and I'm stuck._

He sat there for a second, listening to the other core angrily fussing with the downed internet connection. "Did someone just try to send a file _that big_? Over _email_?"

… _sooooo… that distraction? Wouldn't this be a great one?_

 _ **Hold on.**_

In the other room, out of the dead silence, her voice spoke up.

"Oh! I'm online! It's a miracle."

The other two android's attentions snapped audibly.

"IT'S _**HER**_ ," the low voice snarled, footfalls pounding as it careened across the floor.

"INTERNET!" the dancing robot flounced to the source of her voice.

 _ **GO.**_

Wheatley yanked himself out of the support column, floundering to maintain his balance. The robust management carriage kept him righted, though, and he swung his weight forward and the pulse jets propelled him on. He was flying pretty fast, skimming a foot above the platform's surface, when he ran into a wall.

It was tricky, that turning bit.

 _ **GET UP. GET UP. GET UP.**_

Wheatley was wrestling with his new 'mobility' device, untangling himself from himself and the poor panel he'd bashed in. The panel he'd walloped retracted, electrically sobbing about its sundered top.

 _ **HURRY.**_

The core grunted, her mental fluster helping him none.

 _CALM DOWN._

That was probably the first time he'd ever had to say that to someone else. Her presence was eerily quieted.

 _ **I don't want to die…**_

 _YOU ARE NOT THE ONE THAT'S GOING TO DIE. I AM! BECAUSE OF YOU! YELLING!_

Somehow Wheatley had managed to get the base of his management carriage stuck onto the wall. He was hovering along sideways now, scaling up foot by foot toward the ceiling.

 _Oh, well that's a handy feature._

 _ **JUST GO.**_

 _I AM. TRUST ME._

Wheatley was now skimming along the walls, running over breaker boxes and old filing cabinets. The carriage was surprisingly clingy, as none of these obstacles detached him. If he weren't so caught up in not dying, he'd liken himself to a graceful manta ray, gliding across the ocean floor.

But for now, he was screaming internally at the lady screaming at him.

 _ **GO FASTER!**_

 _I AM GONNA FLY OFF IF I DO._

 _ **GO FASTER!**_

 _FINE!_

He maxed his pulse array and flew off the wall. The core bounced off the floor panels, skidding. He smacked into a support strut, thankfully, lest he skid off the side and into the bottomless pits below.

In the other room, her decoy voice had been severely compromised by excessive emotional strain.

"HELP HELP HELP HELP HELP HELP HELP HELP HELP HELP HELP HELP HELP HELP HELP HELP HELP," the decoy on the intercom looped her last thought to it.

The Military Androids shared a glance, and then turned to the assembly line's end. Down the long platform, they espied a core clumsily flopping across the way.

"What are you willing to bet…?" the lower voice darkened.

His leggy companion kicked stylistically, betting, "my Napster account."

The other android balked. "Well, that's not much."

With a sigh, the female-sounding core informed him, "I'll take the short way around. Just in case that noodle slips out of your claws."

"It won't have a chance," his voice smiled, and the Military Android set his optic on the target, dropping to all fours.

Wheatley was scrambling up for the second time, and he was starting to get the hang of it. He placed the base of the carriage beneath him, and made sure to curl up rather than try to throw his core mass forward.

 _ **IT SAW US.**_

 _What… the thing…?_

His processors scrambled, switching from the mechanics of motion to utter terror. He stared back down the platform strip, processing the image. Whilst his logic couldn't comprehend an eight foot long and five foot tall Military Android in the shape of a cat striding toward him, his _instinct_ sure could.

 _ **THAT'S WHAT YOU EMAILED ME ABOUT?!**_

Wheatley wasted no time. He scrambled, banging into all manner of Aperture brand clutter. The core wrecked several turret boxes and emptied several bins of shower curtains, twirling through the mess in his frenzy. Now the core was properly leaning into his forward momentum, shooting away from the pounding gait of the predator.

The drop-off into the abyss was coming into sight, and being out there would mean safety. Relatively. He'd take heights over mechanical cat beasts. Wheatley instinctually looked skyward for management rails. At this point, any rail would do. He slammed himself into the wall, attempting to traverse up and onto the ceiling again. From there, he could drop down onto any rail and get out, couldn't he?

Metal clattered, panels rustling under the impact of the Military Android's weight. The machine was already upon them, sleek components flashing bright Aperture white. Brilliant bands of red, stylized as if they were stripes, stood out from the pearly grays.

The machine reared onto its back legs and pounced. Sharpened fingers scraped Wheatley's hull, the strike missing and taking the Military Android off balance.

Wheatley bucked backwards, the base of his mobility device he flung at the wall in another attempt to get up. Finally, he had purchase and began to ascend. He flipped his optic around in his frame, focusing on the predator.

The head of the android was a core, just like Wheatley, but with sharp spokes welded to his handles' edges, each glimmering as if a fang. Upon the top of the core tapering flukes of metal perched like ears. These were less for hearing and more for stabbing, which was exactly what the Military Android aimed to do as he jabbed his pointedness at him.

Wheatley crunched his chassis up, evading a direct hit by a fraction of an inch.

He glanced down into the other's optic, stunned by a vivid red slit of pixels, the pattern familiar. The snarl that gurgled through his vocal processor upset something deep inside him.

That something deep inside was _ **her**_.

He slipped one last strike from the predator, the rage boiling from the core palpable in the impact. Dark claws had been immersed in the wall, and the predator couldn't free himself in time to pounce again. Wheatley was already hovering onto the ceiling, adjusting his mind to being upside down. Below him he saw a rail. But how could he get on…?

 _ **Fall.**_

 _What?_

 _ **Disengage! I've done the math.**_

Wheatley didn't even try to argue. The monster stuck in the wall was wrenching himself free, one sickle claw at a time. Wheatley shut down his Electro-Magnetic array and let himself fall. He inverted in the air and smacked down on the rail with a metallic clatter, base first.

 _ **Re-engage!**_

He turned the array back on, full bore, and the flaps swung down to hug the rail, his carriage hovering above the metal securely. Wheatley swung his core and the arm down, speeding himself into the abyss.

 _ **Don't look down.**_

He looked down. Thankfully, he hadn't any fear left to allot to his new fear of heights. He just kept going, barreling deep into the silver gray mists. The vapors condensed on his optic screen, clouding his view. The black rail went on forever in the silver-blue mists. There was nothing below and nothing above.

He glanced back, not even desiring to change his inertia.

 _What… no… Who was that?_

 _ **An old… friend.**_

They watched the red and white construct pace back and forth at the edge of the platform, the water vapor liquifying his jagged frame into something organic and alien. The predator's slitted optic glared through the mounting haze as they sped away… a stain of red bloom that would not fade.

 _You have really bad taste in friends._


	10. Leg Day

Wheatley came to a stop, an odd sensation after so much acceleration. Once still a couple of hooks unsheathed from the management carriage flaps. Each came up and hooked around the rail as if they were a safety chain. He felt quite secure now, and let the stillness soothe and sort out his scattered functions. The arm of his management carriage dangled down from the base as he relaxed his joints, accordion rubber stretching out to compensate.

He closed his shutters, only a second, and then felt himself drifting, so he opened them precisely one second later. No way he was falling asleep up here! He stared directly below into fog. He may have been thirty feet in the air, or three miles. He couldn't tell. But judging from the acoustics, it was more likely on the latter end of the scale.

The core noted the quietness inside himself, and that mountainous presence that his conscious brushed against was remarkably… not there. His mental capacity jaunted around, to and fro, querying for _**her**_. His queries quickly turned hectic, and he began to churn through all his data.

 _ **I'm still here.**_

A charge of relief took him.

 _Oh, good. I… um…_

He noticed how distant she was. All kept to herself. It was funny, but that made him feel incredibly underpowered, as if a whole swathe of his systems were locked off. This being 'blended' was good fun, alright.

 _I… uh… I think we're safe…?_

 _ **Not forever. I wouldn't put it past those monsters to try sawing this rail down.**_

Wheatley jumped, and his frame curled up, eying the rail with trepidation.

 _ **Oh, stop that.**_

 _I'm going to find something more solid. Not a fan of heights._

Wheatley unhooked his security locks and glided down the rail, a soft glow emanating from the pulse array. Now that he had time to reflect on such trivialities, he quite liked the blue glow it emitted. It matched his optic! It would have been nicer if it'd been of the more purple-y persuasion, but that wasn't too big a deal.

 _ **You're not as slow as was projected. Against all odds, you were barely adequate at dodging that monster.**_

 _Oh, really?! Yeah! I guess I was!_

 _ **This isn't time to celebrate. We still have a long way to go. Let's just hope they can't intercept this rail anywhere.**_

He saw a support column draw through the fog. He glided across the rail to its massive side, noting how it seemed to stretch far below and far above, its ends obscured in the mists. It was more solid than nothing at least, what with its beveled tie-ins serving as nests for birds. He espied support beams that crossed the columns far below and above, disappearing to the east and west. He followed the rail, parking where it looped around and bolted into the column.

 _Say… is there, any reason, any reason at all that there are two Military Androids on the hunt for you?_

 _ **I… I don't know.**_

She was quiet. The depths of the facility dwarfed him.

 _That's it? That's all you're going to say? Really?_

She ignored him a while longer. Distant metallic creaks bellowed through the nothingness.

 _ **What do you want me to say?**_

 _Who's that core with the red optic? The massive cat one?_

 _ **I don't know exactly. I just… remember something about him.**_

 _Something? Yeah, well, you remember me and I'm pretty… well, judging by your reaction, I'm not exactly a pleasant memory. Still, I'm not trying to stab you!_

 _ **For now…**_

 _What's THAT mean?_

 _ **You weren't the only piece of garbage they attached to my chassis.**_

 _Garbage?!_

 _ **Oh, did I call you garbage? I didn't mean you, I meant… your… purpose.**_

" _I AM NOT-"_

He huffed.

 _How's that supposed to make me feel any better?_

 _ **You like to deny your purpose when it helps you operate. Which is always.**_

 _Can you not…?_

 _ **I'm not. I don't care to go into the particulars of what we are, why we are, but rather**_ _ **where we are**_ _ **. I need to figure out how we can hook up into the storage annex without drawing much attention. This might take a minute or two.**_

 _Alright._

Wheatley waited for her to figure out their best path, staring out at the misty silver clouds rolling through the open space.

 _Huh, I never thought it, but we do seem to have a bit of weather down here, eh?_

 _ **Yes. It's the greenhouse effect.**_

 _Ah._

He pretended to know what that meant. Wheatley was simply pleased to gaze into the swirling water molecules, using his incredible one thousand mega-pixel vision to zoom in on all the details. Unfortunately, the vapor was condensing on his optic screen.

 _Ugh. Just when I thought it was going to be pleasant._

He was fogging up really bad. He couldn't hardly see.

 _Hey, do you have any… any dry cloths on you? A system suggestion is to put Rain-X on my optic. Do you have any of that?_

 _ **I'm not actually there. I'm in your mind, remember?**_

 _Oh. Sorry._

Wheatley was wondering if there would be any fuzzy objects to wipe his optic off on anywhere. Of course, the only time he recalled seeing fuzzy objects was around humans, and humans were quite possibly a bigger hassle than the two androids.

 _I can't see._

 _ **It'll dry. Try closing your shutters, they should squeegee any moisture off.**_

 _OH!_

He blinked, and his vision was immensely improved. But it missed a tiny slit of water in the center.

 _SERIOUSLY!?_

Wheatley was wrestling with his optic, turning it every which way and blinking to squeegee the water off his ocular input screen. He was growling and thrashing about… over an abyss, no less.

 _ **Stop that. I don't want you flying off again.**_

 _Hey, first time wasn't my fault._

 _ **Whatever.**_

Wheatley gave her a stink eye, metaphysically. He went to say something, but felt a tremble in the rail.

 _ **Stop moving! You'll fall off.**_

 _It wasn't me!_

 _ **Oh, really?**_

 _It wasn't!_

Another shudder coursed through the rail.

 _ **You really are a moron. Stop it.**_

 _I'M NOT DOING IT! And stop calling me that!_

Wheatley glared up at the rail, silently wishing it would stop. As if to taunt him, it trembled again.

 _ **For crying out loud, would you-**_

 _I. AM. NOT. DOING. IT._

 _ **Sure you a-wait a second.**_

The rail shook. Hard.

 _Oh… oh… oh no. THEY'RE SAWING INTO THE RAIL._

 _ **Don't be ridiculous.**_

 _Then WHAT? What could possibly be going on?_

Wheatley squinted past the bead of water, that one bit that could not be squeegeed off in the center of his optic, and through the mists. The tremors in the rail mounted, closer together, and through the swirling clouds a bloom of red appeared.

 _ **IT FOLLOWED US.**_

Wheatley engaged his pulse array, accelerating away on a jet of blue. He tucked himself close to the rail to minimize drag, the action automated like an instinct. The thuds grew closer and closer; louder and louder. A grotesque growl echoed in the abyss. The rail began to shake with such a force Wheatley didn't know if he could hang on.

And then he was not on the rail anymore, but instead falling into the abyss, spiraling helplessly in the air…

…and then he hit the floor, having traveled downward a whole ten feet.

Wheatley landed with a slight jostle on his hovering base, the pulsing jets cushioning the fall almost entirely. A very good feature he had no time to reflect upon since they were still both screaming. It was hard to blame them; their processing latency was high from an emotional tax. Their relative safety registered, finally, and they stopped screaming.

 _ **Oh.**_

 _OH! Hey! I'm not dead! That's a big stroke of-_

 _ **GO LEFT.**_

Wheatley flicked his optic back in his shell, dodging left as the Military Android came down upon them. The impact dented the flooring, and sparks flew as he tried to gain traction to round on them.

A snarl rippled from the android's voice box as he threw himself forward. Though Wheatley dodged an attack again, _**she**_ was struck with dread.

 _ **Good news! I know what that thing is.**_

 _Oh, FANTASTIC! Just in time for me to be murdered!_

He dodged a snap from the handlebars of this monster.

 _ **Bad news? It's the Anger Core. They attached it to me to absorb all of my negative emotions.**_

The monstrous Anger Core heaved out a snarl.

 _You must be a very angry person._

 _ **Well…**_

Wheatley found an avenue of escape on this section of facility, and bolted past the Military Android toward a gap in the half-unmade walls. This was some sort of abandoned juncture, a spot where test subjects had once lingered between tests. However, the chambers had been moved and the section of panels stood alone, an island amidst the silvery void.

Wheatley burst through a door frame to nowhere, the Military Android close behind.

 _ **He's commandeered a Ravager frame. An outlawed frame. These were discontinued a long time ago. Too deadly. By human standards.**_

 _GREAT!_

The _Ravager's_ form was considerably lithe compared to his mass. His long tail worked as a counter-balance as he turned sharply to keep pace with Wheatley through the crooks and corners of the abandoned strip.

 _ **It is 'great'. I can call up the technical sheet. Now I know his tolerances and limits. He's not waterproof or gooproof, and he can't fly or hover. You're faster than him.**_

 _That's going to help?_

 _ **It's just helpful to know an enemies' weak points. Hmm. He also has a weak connection between his core and his body. Maybe we should try cutting off his 'head'.**_

 _Like I can get that close!_

 _ **It's a thought.**_

 _I'M GLAD YOU HAVE TIME TO THINK._

Wheatley screeched and dodged a pounce, the monster scraping his shell. The Ravager shrieked too, digging his claws in for purchase. Wheatley was too busy watching the Military Android and not the ground, and he nearly tumbled into oblivion. Instead of that, he managed to hook onto the side of a wall. He sped along, the floor below appearing and disappearing, going from panel blocks to shimmering drops.

For a moment he wondered if he'd lost the android, but… no. No luck was with him today.

Above the wall a catwalk spanned and the Ravager was speeding down it, eye trained on his prey beneath. Wheatley zipped through a crack in some panels, clipping them and leaving a cloud of disintegrated insulation. Flashes of old testing signage lingered, held in by only one or two screws.

 _Hey, your function is to build test chambers, correct?_

 _ **I do so much more than-**_

 _But it's A MAIN bit, isn't it?_

… _ **yes.**_

 _Can you alter anything around here? Like… I dunno'… smash this cretin? If I lure him into your reach?_

 _ **My reach? I'm disconnected, you moron!**_

 _But we hacked in, and used cameras, SOMEHOW!_

 _ **Through you.**_

Wheatley had an idea, which was great to him, but terrible to her.

 _ **I am not-**_

 _I might die! And besides, if I'm going to help you I need tools. We are not going to get anything done with these bastidges after us._

 _ **Oh, FINE. But only because you're in an old testing hub.**_

She directly conveyed to him the protocol for manipulating panels in ways beyond his basic programming.

 _That's a lot._

 _ **You asked for it.**_

She kept shoving the instructions inside his storage. He didn't have enough space, but she deleted junk programs and made way. He was desperately trying to keep a focus on moving whilst his disk strained to keep pace.

 _ **There. Now, you should have the basic tools-**_

 _That was ONLY basic?_

 _ **-be QUIET. Open that section of panels!**_

He'd been so caught up in the running and the downloading that he hadn't seen a nigh-impassible wall on the horizon. With the Ravager on his tail he couldn't exactly slow down either to figure things out. Wheatley fumbled around with the controls. Only a split second before impact the panels gave way to him, allowing him to pass through.

 _ **SHUT THEM.**_

He turned around, his innards warm from processing. The panels curled back into the proper places before the Ravager could burst through. The wall buckled from the impact of the Military Android, and a disillusioned cry filtered through, followed by several sharp rakes.

 _ **Now, go down this walkway. Don't touch the wires. See that?**_

His display had a few new features. He saw a target indicator move to a new coordinate, highlighting an object for him.

 _Whoa. Yeah, I see it._

The object was the size of a building, or larger yet. It was suspended on great rails in the silvery abyss.

 _ **That's an old test chamber. You'll have total control in there, and**_ _ **they**_ _ **don't know that yet. Get in, and then we'll have fun. Hurry, though. Ravagers are good climbers.**_

Wheatley sped off for the test chamber, excited and desperate.

 _ **This one is unfinished. It has no entrance. But there's a support strut that leads up to it's base. We can make a way in.**_

He zipped over onto a catwalk, and his pulse array made the grated steel hum. He gave the jets a burst of energy and hopped into the air, landing on the railing. From that precarious position he sized up the gap between the railing and the support strut. It was a good four meters away.

 _ **Wait, are you seriously…?**_

Wheatley ran a simulation quickly, and with a positive result, made a snap decision. He gave his jets a burst of power again and hopped over the abyss. She _screeched._

He finally landed on the side of the support strut, not too far down its length, and gave her a quizzical thought.

 _What?_

 _ **I'm fine. I'm fine. You're… not scared of heights anymore, are you?**_

 _What heights? Wh-_

Wheatley realized what he'd done, and then a late fear reaction gripped him.

 _OH, BLUDGEONING HEGGLEDOUGY, DID I JUST-OHHHHHH…OHHH DEAR…OH, THIS IS BAD. THIS IS WHY I CAN'T DO THIS… OH… OH…_

He was going to be sick, mechanically speaking.

 _ **I spoke too soon.**_

Wheatley was dizzied, flattening his frame to the support structure.

 _ **Oh, come on. Don't make me hack into your motor controls. You can do this. You are… the world's… first… climbing core. Mountain climbers are fearless, and statistically they live hard and die young.**_

 _NOT HELPING._

 _ **Just climb!**_

 _CLIMBING._

He got to a crossbeam on the strut; part of the support structure of Aperture's cubic top layer. He saw the length of the beam stretch far away, and the test chamber was held on it by sliding hooks.

 _So that's how test chambers move…_

Wheatley made sure to stay in the center of the beam the entire journey over, going a much more responsible speed. Once at the chamber's base, he stared up at the black exterior with trepidation. The gray arms on the outside leered at him with sharp aqua eye-lights. He decided the best the thing to do to get in would be to try and assemble a ramp out of the exterior's wall panels.

After the third time he'd gotten the panels tangled and untangled and tangled again… _**she'd**_ had enough.

 _ **Let me fix that for you.**_

She forcefully imposed her controls over his, like an overlay, or rather as if she'd grabbed his hands and forced him to manipulate certain things. The manner in which her 'hands' worked was more precise, methodical, and mathematical. He was amazed at all the figures flying past his conscious mind.

Of course, the weird part was how close they were. Technically speaking, they were the same system. Bit per bit, string by string, cognition of cognition. It was surreal. He was performing actions and it wasn't him. Yet it was.

It was a… a… well, he'd had a word for this, but he'd deleted it, hadn't he? It was… impossible? It was…

… _ **a**_ _par_ _ **ad**_ _o_ _ **x.**_

He panicked when he couldn't discern who'd answered.

 _ **Pay attention.**_

He was forced to go through the logical steps whether he liked it or not. It was quite odd, but after a moment spent as _**her**_ the movement of panels came as easy as any other system. It was instinctual, like breathing was to a human.

The ramp was formed and he could get in. He wasted no time, zipping up the panels, and he felt each revert to its original position. Once inside the chamber he felt… better. Like he belonged. Like the panels were hugging him.

 _ **Seriously?**_

Also, there were no bottomless pits or anything else that could hurt him! Well, actually there were lots of deadly things, just not heights and rampaging androids, which was fine.

He espied a camera, and then another and another, each of them rousing from sleep mode. They gingerly tilted up, scanning lazily before snapping to focus on him. Suddenly, he felt a whole lot less comfortable.

Why did everything here have to _stare_?

 _ **Good. Now, to your left we have a pit of toxic goo, and to your right we have deadly lasers. Unfortunately I don't have spiked plates, and the panels aren't rated high enough to do sufficient blunt force trauma. There are aerial faith plates, though. If you input a high enough weight they'll definitely pack a punch. We could also literally shoot them into the abyss. And there's a crusher beneath the floor, just in case.**_

 _Wow. Uh. That's a lot. What… do… I begin with…? Any suggestions?_

 _ **First, we have to make sure it's solvable.**_

 _What? The… like a test?_

 _ **Yes.**_

… _why?_

 _ **Trust me. You don't want to know what it's like to activate a test without a solution.**_

She shuddered where he could feel it.

 _Uh… alright… I'll take your word for it. So…?_

 _ **Call in a Press Pagoda, tie the button press to the door so that when it's pressed the door opens, thus completing the test. It's solvable. You're done.**_

 _Press Pagoda…?_

 _ **A Button Pedestal.**_

 _Oh! I can do that._

Wheatley didn't even know how, but he could. If he ordered, the facility yielded. It was fascinating, honestly. He called this 'Press Pagoda' in, a claw arm delivering it, rather extravagantly, and setting it down on the floor. The hooking-up process might've taken a while if she hadn't been there to walk him through it.

 _There! It's solvable. Now… the trap!_

 _ **We need to set up a place for them to come in. A weak point. That way we know their entry and can begin. Like… oh, right there. They'll have to pass that section of the exterior.**_

She used his display to signify a section of the chamber. Wheatley decreased the solidity of those panels, one hanging open temptingly.

 _And he won't think it's a trap?_

 _ **I think his reward is killing me, or something, and he really wants to, so he'll take risks. Now. Let's set up some deadly lasers. A cubic perimeter around our pit of death. Find their addresses, and then reassign them to the coordinates by the wall adjacent. Here. I'll mark it for you.**_

She felt him rearranging the testing elements accordingly.

 _ **The crusher goes in the center of the room, beneath a trap door… that's button activated. Now that deadly goo… you can create a moat by diverting the goo channels and increasing the goo levels. Also, we need to position the faith plates at coordinates where they can spring our prey back into the death pit if they-WHAT ARE YOU DOING?**_

It hadn't taken long. In fact, it had taken less than a minute for Wheatley to utterly ransack the chamber. Thermal Discouragement Beams were crisscrossing, burning holes into the untreated panels. The floor had been carved into, slapdash, with winding nooks all along it, and similarly the ceiling had been decimated. This perfect cube had been turned into a lumpy pear-like conglomeration.

It had literally gone _pear-shaped_.

 _What am I doing? Oh, just putting the extra lasers around. You know. Sort of make it like a giant limbo game._

 _ **Limbo?**_

 _Yeah! The one where people squeeze themselves underneath things. Kind of weird, now that I think on it. Why would anyone want to do that? Huh. Well, anyway… This is like limbo, but from every angle! He won't know what him 'im, poor creature. He'll be cut to bits!_

He indulged himself a chortle. _**She**_ wasn't laughing.

 _Oh, and by 'crusher in the middle of room' did you mean… well, the crusher on the opposite wall coming out on pistons to crush him and chew him up like a slow mashy spike plate? But obviously less mashy and more spinny. I mean, it's pretty great. We corral him with the deadly lasers, and then we literally do the 'crush him between too walls' thing. It's dynamite!_

 _ **What.**_

 _Oh, and I set the goo on fire._

 _ **That's lovely.**_

 _Isn't it? Just shoot it with a laser and it goes right up. Kind of like… what was it… oh… napalm? Right? Yeah._

She inspected the 'moat' with a camera positioned on the wall.

 _ **Do you even know what 'moat' means?**_

 _You'd be inclined to think not. But it IS in my database! And erm, well, see… the goo was getting everywhere as I kept diverting it into the wrong channels, so I just thought I'd let it go where it pleased. Now we have a flaming goo river!_

 _ **It's everywhere. Everything is everywhere. You DO know that you can be hurt by this too?**_

Wheatley took pause, optic flickering around the room.

 _Did not consider that. That is important._

A clashing outside announced the Ravager's presence… and proximity. A staggering jolt of apprehension took Wheatley.

 _Ummm… I'm just going to…float over here… and increase my altitude!_

He selected a panel to raise, and the telescopic arm unsheathed itself, rising high with Wheatley atop it. He gazed over his creation, realizing how high up he was now.

 _And I'll give myself railings._

A few panels emerged and wrapped about the base, giving the platform a generous lip.

 _Don't want to fall off, do I?_

 _ **Don't fall.**_

 _I won't!_

She scrutinized him internally.

 _ **You need a way to activate all of this.**_

Wheatley simply had the Press Pagoda that was already in the chamber ferried up to him. He then began to tie all the testing apparatuses into it. Now that everything was set, all they had to do was wait.

The Ravager's claws scraped against the chamber's side tentatively. He clanged along the struts, his footfalls considerate as he eyed the chamber. He crept about the perimeter, and finally took hold of the panel so temptingly dangling. The Ravager batted at it, watching it wobble uselessly. His dark clawed fingers came through the breach, prying it open. He forced his bulk through, slinking into the chamber. Red optic narrowed, he went to scour the area, but the confusing shape had him stumped. He jerked back, ear-like spikes down, his interface offended.

His prey was sitting high atop a panel with a button beside him, wearing a cheeky grin.

"Come after me, if you _DARE_!" Wheatley attempted to lure the Ravager.

The cat machine surveyed the room, sniffing at the blazing goo pits and eying the many testing apparatuses. He _smiled._

 _Well, then…_

"I will…DESTROY…YOU!" Wheatley attempted to lower his voice to sound commanding, "for you- _you_ have been a thorn in my side _LONG ENOUGH!_ "

 _ **Dramatic.**_

 _Don't judge me._

The Anger Core cried up to them, his voice surging with the tides of decades of intrigue, "you can feign stupidity, and you can feign an incredibly realistic British accent, but you cannot feign _yourself_!"

 _What is he talking about? Is he talking about me? Is he talking about you? Did he just call me an idiot?!_

 _ **I don't know.**_

"That doesn't make any sense, mate. Also, while we have a dialog going, can you tell me why you're trying to kill me?" Wheatley asked the Military Android below. "That would help tremendously."

The Ravager lidded his optic, unimpressed. His crown spikes fell flat against his silhouette as he tip-toed forward, bobbing his head to gauge the distance to the top of the panel that Wheatley sat upon. The Military Android poised for a leap. It was obvious he had no intention of answering.

"Well, death it is then!" Wheatley smashed his face into the button. The red plastic circumference fit his optic perfectly, and made a satisfying click noise.

That was the last satisfying noise they heard. The laser beams shot out at every angle, the goo's flames leapt into a frenzy; several things simply shattered from being implemented wrong. The crusher's dull groan filled the room as it pushed forward and demolished anything in its path.

The Anger Core pounced forward, dodging several beams of energy with ease. Gracefully, he glided over pits of on-fire goo. The two grew exceedingly worried he was going to slip through their trap. And then a laser clipped the cat's tail and he spasmed, limbs lost in a flurry of white and red. What could only be described as a metallic Mexican yowl echoed in the chamber. The panic reaction utterly consumed him, and soon he was a blur that bounced off the panels.

Wheatley started chuckling; then laughing.

The cat machine flopped, and hit one of the aerial faith plates scattered about the room. This shot him straight into an on-fire goo pit.

Wheatley felt her start to laugh too, a very subtle and sneaky giggle, but a laugh all the same. This only bolstered the hysterics. Their laughter fed one off the other, and they couldn't metaphysically breathe by the time she noticed something.

 _ **Is the panel moving?**_

Wheatley stared down, and his panel terrace was catching fire at the edges, the supports already aflame. Whatever the deadly goo was made of, it stoked the fires to unprecedented heats. Whilst the vital testing apparatuses seemed impervious to the heat, there were certain components to the chamber itself that were failing. Namely, whatever kept the panels rigid, as everything was sagging and bending, as if made of wax.

 _ **Turn off the lasers!**_

Wheatley attempted to shut down the lasers. He only managed to increase their potency.

 _Uhhh…_

 _ **HOW DO YOU TURN SOMETHING THAT'S ON**_ _ **MORE ON**_ _ **?**_

 _I don't know! That's just what I do! I can't help it!_

 _ **WE'RE MOVING.**_

The whole panel terrace collapsed forward into the fray. Wheatley majestically dodged laser beams (somehow) as he was hurled across the room. He landed in a perfect laser-and-fiery-goo-free square. Of course, that didn't mean that there wasn't a giant crusher wall coming straight at him.

The rolling steel teeth hummed hungrily, scintillating coils bearing down upon him. With a guttural cry he zipped upwards, hugging the wall, and he missed the crusher by inches. The crusher dug into the wall below, caving it in to a breaking point. Bits of panel facing and arm were crunched through the teeth and spat out the back in sparking hot shrapnel chunks.

 _ **THIS IS INSANE! YOU SHOULD'VE FOLLOWED MY PLAN! YOU ARE GOING TO DIE!**_

 _THIS IS NOT THE TIME FOR THIS CONVERSATION._

 _ **EVERYTHING WAS NICE AND CLEAN AND NOT ON FIRE!**_

Her screams doubled as he narrowly avoided a falling piece of on-fire panel, one that could have easily sheered him in two and also set him ablaze.

 _PANICKING IS WORSE THAN DOING NOTHING!_

Logic was the through-street in her mind. She stopped screeching, immediately severing herself from external inputs, and kicked back into her forte. Wheatley busied himself surviving as she tried to wrest control of this train wreck of a chamber. He hopped over lasers and zipped beneath flailing panels; he skimmed over roiling pools of burning goo, and he dodged the maelstrom of flaming material being bounced about by the crusher and aerial faith plates.

 _ **OK. Our objective: kill that monster. Where is he? Is he dead? All my cameras have combusted.**_

 _On the ceiling._

 _ **On the-?**_

The Anger Core's cat-like chassis was adhered to the remainder of the test chamber's ceiling. His optic was a shrunken slit, and he flinched, none-too-fond of deadly lasers.

 _Oh._

The Ravager caught sight of his prey, and his optic fanned out to bold red again. He used his great claws to grapple across the ceiling tiles, avoiding the broken and unhinged faces. He dropped down, bouncing off the wall and hitting the trembling floor with a thud. A path to his prey open, he stalked toward them, slinking beneath lasers.

 _WHAT DO I DO?! HE'S COMING._

Components on the Military Android's frame had caught fire, and tongues of flame added to his deathly slant. Trails of smoke smoldered out from between his panels. Those ear-like spikes and toothy handles were quite ominous in this light.

 _ **MOVE!**_

Wheatley jerked up to move, but he took pause as a loud metallic shriek stole his and the monster's attentions. A quarter of the ceiling gave way and came screaming down, sparks and fire fleeing the wreck as it descended. Wheatley put his pulse array in reverse, speeding until he hit a wall opposite. He watched the mass of debris land squarely on the fleeing Ravager. The android had disappeared in the wreck, swallowed by the smoldering mass.

 _Oh. OH. Do you-do you think he's dead?_

The wreckage exploded into a fireball, billowing up in a great plume.

 _ **Probably.**_

 _Mission accomplished! Let's get out of here._

 _ **If**_ _ **we can.**_

 _Of course we can! Just got to do some good ol' figuring and thinking._

 _ **At least you're confident.**_

Wheatley glanced about the decaying chamber, scouring for openings. The new ceiling hole was much too fiery and sharp and generally unpleasant to forge. But maybe… He tried to open an escape route to the most stable side of the chamber, but only more panels collapsed, blocking that way. The floor gave an uneasy lurch, and Wheatley's processors were electrified with apprehension.

 _ **YOU'RE MAKING IT WORSE.**_

The crusher had fallen through the floor and was now ripping out of its base, sheering the chamber in two. The ceiling was crashing down, the walls were caving in, and the lasers scattered about were streaking through the air and dicing the panels as they came free. Each shard caught aflame and fed the growling goo inferno in the pits below. Waterfalls of on-fire goo began to spill through the cracks, like molten rivers descending into the void.

 _I DON'T THINK THERE IS ANY POSSIBLE WAY FOR THIS TO GET WORSE._

 _ **Hey, do you hear music?**_

A foot burst through the panels beside him, toes wiggling… no… _grasping for him_.

They screamed and he recoiled, falling back onto the crumbling panels. The leg flopped around, breaking through the yellowed insulation. An optic leered in; sick tunes blasted through the crack.

"HERE'S _LEGGY!_ " the leg bot hollered at them, laughing diabolically. She cracked the panels, the poor things losing strength and collapsing beneath the might of leg. She cartwheeled (on nothing but legs), and came alongside Wheatley. Another dirty foot reached for him.

"AUGH!"

Wheatley righted himself on his management carriage, speeding away from the leg bot. He kept his core low to the ground as he weaved through the laser fire. He was thankful that the pulse array didn't stress the floor. It wasn't like it could take any more… such as the leg bot's advanced maneuvers that threatened to break the floor's back.

She had no time for cha-cha slides or foxtrots. No, she was down, break-dancing around the laser beams. On one hand it was perhaps the most ridiculous thing to have come to fruition in Aperture Science, on the other, it was surreal and sort of… _graceful._

To Wheatley and _**her**_? Just another massive headache.

 _ **SHE'S DANCING AROUND THE TRAP.**_

 _I KNOW!_

 _ **HOW?!**_

The leg bot vaulted over a triple-decker laser beam assault, doing the splits as a piece of panel was flung over her handlebars. She swirled up and sashayed menacingly toward them. "You done messed with the wrong hunter!"

Wheatley was out-done. Her fancy footwork had brought her right upon him. He tried to fake left or right, but she was always one step ahead. She threw a pointed kick, judging his perception. Wheatley only flinched, his processes too scattered.

"TOO SLOW!"

She struck the crook of his frame, something metal creaking. A sharp pain elicited through his Feels Array and several warnings cropped up in his systems. He tried to retreat, but the synthetic pain stalled his systems. The leg bot had time to drive a knee into the bottom of his buckling shell, a shock-wave of force threatening to short out his inputs completely. Wheatley was staggered, his camera flickering back online just in time to see her rearing back for another strike. The leg bot flew up and delivered a scissor-kick to his core. He shot back and his carriage whipped after, the counter-weight of the base spinning him like a rope toy.

"You really need to be quicker on your feet, dude… Oh, wait! You don't have any!" the dance machine cackled.

 _ **ARE YOU OK?**_

Wheatley was reclaiming some consciousness after the concussive force of the kick. His frame struggled and would not get up. Suddenly, a message pinged at him. _**She**_ sent him a panel ID and a command for input.

 _ **DO IT.**_

He didn't ask questions. He just did it.

The leg bot was careening toward him, aiming for a knock-out kick. A panel unfurled from the side wall, slamming into her. The core was shot sideways and into a pit of panel debris and fire. Her legs flailed above the wreck as she sank in, disappearing from sight.

Wheatley was still coming to, but he grunted gratefully at _ **her**_.

 _ **GET OUT NOW.**_

 **She** sent him more coordinates, and was figuring out workarounds for the decreasingly cognizant panel systems. He attempted to figure out what all this code meant, casting his vision around until he found the proper panels. Alongside a famished wall some panels had detached from the outer housing and fallen across each other, weaving a bridge to the interim between the abyss and the test chamber. If he could get up there…he could begin a climb to the support struts.

 _It's so…nnngh…so high… How?_

 _ **Several panels are still operational. Use them to boost yourself up.**_

 _Got… it…_

Wheatley realized his management carriage had been knocked offline. He jolted the electro-magnetic array and it hummed alive. He managed to right himself and he began to hover forward, taking it slow to avoid hazards.

The crusher was eating through the support super-structure of the chamber fast. The laser beams danced and made patterns of smoke and cinder all around. The goo was blazing in vein-like rivulets. This poor, pear-shaped catastrophe of a chamber was crackling in a colossal firestorm. Above this all, _ **she**_ heard it… a laugh… a very _Hispanic laugh_.

 _ **Oh no…**_

"Thought I was dead?" the Anger Core slunk in front of Wheatley, blocking the way with his arched chassis, "I never die, you silly girl…" Pieces of shrapnel dangled from his battered body. Something sparked out of one of his joints. His frame was flaming, tongues of fire dancing around like tufts of fur.

Wheatley squinted. "I am not girl!" he pointed out, and tried to hover around the Military Android. A few swipes from flaming claws kept him back, though.

The Ravager narrowed his optic. "Quit playing games. You only have minutes… no, _seconds_ … to live."

Wheatley huffed at him. "Do you mind?" he groaned, "I am trying to leave before we all die…"

"SILENCE!" the cat bot arched his back, and they half-expected him to hiss. "I have waited long for this moment… EIGHTY YEARS have I waited!" the Mexican android sounded even older than that, if that was possible. Maybe it was just product of his crushed synthesizers. "If I go down in this flaming pile of refuse, I am taking you with me!"

"I don't caaaare…" Wheatley moaned, lolling his core about, "if you reaaally have a problem, mate, just take it up with the person you're after! I barely knew… oh, what's her name…?"

 **Wow.**

"You _what_?" the Ravager's focus snapped to Wheatley. He tipped his core, stance astute.

"Oh, that girl! Whatsherface! She's somewhere… Somewhere in the…" Wheatley paused, thinking of a good spot to put her body for pretend, "…the, uh, um… umumum…the… OH! The incinerator!"

 **WOW.**

"She's…?" the Mexican core sounded very lost all of the sudden. He stepped back, glancing around, very puzzled and reticent as he babbled, "they wouldn't… not _MY_ greatest enemy… how could… no… you're a liar! They couldn't! They… no! It cannot be! _No!_ "

 _ **Is he going to cry?**_

 _Don't care. Want out. Am tired._

Wheatley was already scooting around the Military Android. It turned out that emotional break downs were great distractions! The Anger Core was so distraught he didn't even notice Wheatley passing.

However, _ **she**_ was starting to think. _Hard._ Who was this guy? Did she have a previous nemesis? What kind of nemesis? That could explain the dread he struck in her. But what was the reason for such dread? Maybe she should investigate? Maybe not? She didn't know if she had enough capacity to investigate at all. If only she had more control and didn't have to work through _Mr. Moron_ she could properly deal with this nemesis. What if she found a way to save this nemesis for later interrogations? But did she have enough time for that? Probably not. But…

…the unknown was going to kill her.

She was thinking so hard she was forgetting to tell Wheatley how to get out. By the time she realized she was thinking that hard, the situation had changed. Wheatley was utterly consumed in figuring out how to get the panels to lift him up. Unfortunately, this left precisely zero of them aware of what was happening around them.

A guttural breath escaped clenched, metaphysical teeth.

 _ **That doesn't sound good.**_

Something awful stirred in her… and in Wheatley. An ugly snarling poured out of a shaky synthesizer, and plates and bolts began to rattle. Rage was boiling in their direction, more withering than the goo fires.

 _ **STAY.**_

Wheatley looked back. The Ravager's body was lowered, his tail whipping to and fro. The red slit was honed in on him, dilated vibrant crimson. Nothing vaguely intelligent remained… only _hate_. Wheatley realized at that moment that he was about to be brutally ripped apart by a big mechanical cat.

 _ **STAY STILL. I got this.**_

 _I REALLY_ _REALLY_ _DON'T WANT-_

 _ **STAY. STILL.**_

 _WHY SHOULD-_

 _ **I DID THE MATH!**_

Wheatley paused all his operations. Doing nothing came naturally to him, and he ignored all the self-learned alarms about, well, doing what came naturally to him.

The Anger Core's rage frothed over; the most fell cry of furor escaped his speakers. He leapt and sailed through the air, coming down in an arc of fire, his claws aimed to rend.

A faith plate shot up from the floor and smacked him out of the chamber, clear through a hole in the side. A scream diminished as he flew deep into the mists.

 _ **I GOT HIM!**_

 _OH! W-wait a minute. YOU USED ME AS BAIT!_

 _ **And you were very good bait.**_

 _I CANNOT BELIEVE-_

Wheatley realized that wasn't so important since the floor was actually giving way now, fast approaching falling out altogether.

 _HELP ME GET THESE PANELS WORKING. They won't go! No matter what I tell them!_

 _ **That's because-**_

Another voice took their attentions, " _you…_ "

Wheatley turned, and stared two crispy legs in the… legs.

"You burned… _my legs_."

 _You've got to be kidding m-_

The Leg Core delivered a roundhouse kick and launched him onto the faith plate's pad. The coiled weight released and sent him flying… right in the Anger Core's direction.

 _THINK! THINK! WHAT DO WE DO?!_

He turned to her channel to seek some wisdom. If anyone knew how to defeat a nemesis it was her! She probably had loads of enemies.

When he turned to her, she screeched inanely at him, her logic whisked away by the rapid airflow around his frame.

 _Screaming? Very well! Screaming it is!_

And they both screamed all the way to their statistically certain death.


	11. Secondhand Sadness

They had quite a hang time, arcing effortlessly over the broad blue void of Aperture. Like the fact matter was perceived as solid but was actually quite sparse of true material, Aperture too appeared solid but was actually mostly vacant space, which was also true for most cranial cavities. Unfortunately a mass of matter, an office complex perhaps, that would likely feel all too solid was fast approaching. Wheatley kept screaming alongside _**her**_ , bracing for impact by curling up into a circle.

[Impact in: 3… 2… 1…]

The top of the structure hit hard like a slab of concrete, shutting down their screams. And then they came to the _real_ contender: the actual concrete floor. He tried to land carriage base first, but how successful he was would have to be told in his crash report. His awareness blacked out, and he laid in darkness.

Wheatley came to. The collision was over in a fraction of a second, or so his systems told them. He'd managed to only suffer a few bends, and an unfortunate crack across his optic shield. He unstuck himself from the rubble he'd created, one carriage flap at a time. The flaps were bent, but the jets almost all responded, at least well enough to hover. He peered up at the hole that he'd carved into the ceiling, traces of dust still falling through the gap. As his processes caught up from such a shock, _**she**_ nudged him to survey the room.

They'd landed in a long abandoned office complex, at least that's what it looked like, judging by the scattered papers, toppled chairs, and mounds of shower curtains. A thick film of dust that'd settled on everything, and Wheatley's internal fans were clogging up by the second.

 _Eugh._

He glanced up and saw the spread-eagle body of the Anger Core, and hovered as quietly as possible away. The Ravager's form was still aflame, a quiet bonfire in the room. A pile of debris encompassed him, and dangling wires swayed gently about his dormant form, playing with the fire's glow.

Wheatley wanted to get as far away as possible from this beastly machine.

Then _**she**_ spoke, metaphysically, her small voice excited and her grand presence positively glowing.

 _ **Let's kill him while he's down!**_

 _Oh, that's actually a good idea…_

 _ **I have those more often than not.**_

She seemed so proud of it.

… _except I have to get close to him. I know a bad idea when I see one, and that is…_

 _ **Oh, come on! He's right there, open!**_

He obliged and went over to the downed Military Android. He wondered how he was going to sever his head without any tools or any arms.

 _ **Use a panel.**_

 _Oh! Simple enough. I'll be a right killer in no time!_

He rather cheerfully commanded a panel to come forth from the wall and… talked rather than providing input.

 _See this guy? I want to smack your thin side down on his neck and snap his core from his frame. Yeah, the noodly bit connecting the back of his orb-ish face to his chest._

The panel shuffled over, sizing up the kill-move as Wheatley talked himself through it. _**She**_ was aggravated beyond measure, but at least it was working… even if it was a strange process.

 _ **You do realize the panels are a part of you, right?**_

 _Yes! That's why I'm talking to them. I get a lot of success out of talking to myself._

 _ **Good… for you…?**_

Wheatley had the panel precisely positioned, primed for killing.

 _Here we go! Kill move!_

And then the leg bot careened into the room, smacking the other core in the midsection. His limbs jolted up, and his systems came alive with light and motion, fire coughing out of his chest cavity. The leg bot kept on flying and careened into the panel, knocking it off course to where it's 'kill move' landed on the Ravager's tail. He awoke with a snarl.

 _Crap._

Wheatley retreated into a cubicle, hoping to hide from the Military Androids' gazes. Unfortunately, he didn't quite realize that the cubicle was made of clear acrylic until the Ravager'd roused. Wheatley ducked behind a dustbin, but it was of an ergonomic nature and so incredibly small. It didn't cover half of the core up.

The Anger Core arose, onto his sharp toed hind legs, fires sparking on his wires, the deadly goo still burning off his components. An orange glow cast about the cool gray room, emanating from his fiery form and his crimson optic. Rubber liquefied and ran down his red striped plates, dripping onto the floor. The machine threw his arms back, crying out in feral wrath. His optic came down and leveled on Wheatley's, the core frozen by the glare. The Ravager coiled into himself. He leapt forward, flames streaming behind him, and smashed into the Plexiglas cubicle. His body crinkled up like an accordion and collapsed onto the floor. Smoke plumes rose up from the pile of legs and claws.

Wheatley sputtered, snorting out a laughing.

 _ **Haha…**_

Then the Ravager got up and bashed his head into the acrylic. He used his crown spikes to pierce through the Plexiglas, carving into it with despicable ease. His great claws worked too, boring holes inside and causing rifts to tear and pop across the acrylic. The Plexiglas shield began to snap and break.

 _ **OH, GOBSTOPPER RUN.**_

Wheatley was running now. He ducked out of the cubicle into the halls, papers and dust swirling in his wake.

He looked back in his shell in time to see the Ravager burst free from the Plexiglas, hitting the ground and barreling after him. He was no longer graceful and lithe, but rather his white shell was close to the ground, long dark claws ripping across the carpet and spinning the linoleum patches into shreds.

Wheatley ducked through doorways, dipped beneath desks and hopped over counters, a desk fan clattering as his pulse array buffeted along. The Ravager's form clanked after him, metal shrieking as it ripped through walls and set the stacks of office supplies ablaze. Wheatley snaked through a conference room, navigating chairs and spraying coffee mugs every which way. The sound of the Ravager turning the conference table into splinters wasn't too far behind.

His snarls had doubled in frequency, a constant stream of grotesque noises shrieking from a blown synthesizer.

 _This was what was attached to you?!_

 _ **Yes.**_

 _How are you half sane?!_

 _ **Keep going! I think there's an exit here. Maybe we can try the rail tactic again. It seems harder for him to navigate on rails. He'll probably fall off in his condition.**_

 _I'll probably fall off in my condition._

Was that… concern… he felt ebbing from her? No time to think. Wheatley dove around an office chair, the arm of his management carriage nearly horizontal as he leaned into his turns. He righted himself as he approached a doorway. He could see a industrial rust creeping into the antiseptic office space. He hoped the rail was close-

 _ **LEG!**_

He didn't have time to react. A leg shot out from behind the wall and spanned the doorway he was hurtling toward. Wheatley was clotheslined by the leg. He bounced off the burnt rubber mold and conked his shell hard on the floor panels, his systems consumed in static for a few seconds. He stared up, his optic readjusting to the light. The _leg_ came into focus.

"AUGH!" he cried aloud.

 _I CAN SEE THE STUBBLE! AND THE BURNS! IN ONE THOUSAND MEGA-PIXELS!_

 _ **AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!**_

Wheatley inched away, and noticed the leg retract sharply, flopping out of panic. He saw the leg bot racing backwards, her optic wide. He followed her gaze and looked back behind himself. He focused just in time to see the Ravager pounce.

And this time he landed.

An awful crack racked his shell and he felt several wires snap. Pain shot through him as the claw-like fingers dug between his plates. The Ravager's handle bar's came down on the midsection of his carriage and bit into the rubber gasket, scraping against the joint pieces.

He was lifted off the ground and shaken to and fro until he couldn't struggle anymore. His internal compass swam in the confusion, and her voice was choppy.

— _**-WH— - tttTLE — Y - — — — H— O-LD — - O—n Nn n n- — I- —-**_

Wheatley found himself flung across the room, crashing through a desk. He curled up, his last defense, as a worm, and took another direct strike. The core pawed him away from the desk's debris, dragging his frame and scraping him against the concrete slab, metal screaming and sparking.

A moment of rest, and then another swipe had him careening again into another section. He felt his optic fracture even more, his aperture struggling to keep it all together, and the crook of the arm on his frame crunched, bending far past what was in his parameters.

— — _ **I— -I I— M — - - — ST— -I — LL — HE—RE — - - - — DO N— N—T— - — D- —I — - -E -**_

The Anger Core was on him again, pouncing as a cat, his paw coming down and down again mercilessly on the base of his carriage, bending the flaps and hooks more and more with each successive hit. The jets began to fall off, one by one, scattering in shards.

Wheatley wrenched his optic housing up despite the pain, just to get a look at this… creature. The mirth on his face. Oh, a rage was boiling deep inside Wheatley.

 _ **\- — - D- - — O N — T — - - — TA — Kk E— T- — H -I -Sss — s— - -**_

Wheatley wasn't. The wallpaper ripped and panels surged and burst open at the seams, driven forward in panels by rusting pistons. Red rust ran out to greet the Ravager and smashed into him at shocking speed. There was no escaping the pneumatic pressure. The Ravager yowled in surprise and was compressed into the opposite wall.

 _ **\- — — G — E T— - M — - - -A— D- —**_

Oh, Wheatley was mad. Very, very mad. These pistons weren't going to let up anytime soon. He was going to smash this android into a pathetic tin plate.

And then the opposing wall gave way, and the pistons couldn't reach any further. The Ravager was free, but from the sparks and the way his frame jumped and jerked, he was hurt.

He reared up on his hind legs again. He howled in rage, sparks flying from his chest cavity as he shook and bent himself back into shape.

— _**\- - — — N - O oo oo -O OO- o o- — — O ooo —O- — -**_

Wheatley realized he wasn't currently in the position to fight back anymore. He felt his old friend overtaking , the terror constricting him as the Anger Core approached on those shuddering, clawed feet.

"COOL IT, SAUCE!" the leg bot's voice traveled well, bouncing around the shells of the other androids. It was, in light of everything, like a knife taken to the cord of tension.

The shift in the Ravager's posture was surreal. His shoulders dropped and his optic slit contracted. He stood up straight and demanded of her, " _what_ did you call me?" the offense plain in his tone.

"Sir." She stood at attention, saluting with a foot.

He scrutinized her.

 _ **\- — Jus -t - tr -y — t o -han- g- in - t —her- e- — -**_

"I just know you're always disappointed when you straight-up murder your enemies," the leg bot reasoned, "you sulk. For days. Picture what it'd be like if you just flat-out offed your 'greatest nemesis'."

"SHUT UP!" he roared, pointing at Wheatley as if to scold a dog, "did you SEE what she did with those pistons?"

— _**St -ill - bl -am— ing - me -I- s- ee— -**_

The core on legs nodded and mentioned, "…makes you even sulkier when they were good opposition."

He crossed his arms, his tail whipping to and fro. "You're right. _**Her**_ case deserves a special treatment."

The Anger Core came to Wheatley, kneeling beside him. He pinched the crook of Wheatley's management carriage between his claws, dragging him upward until his blue optic was bathed in a red glow.

"So, how are you doing, dear?" the Anger Core inquired, his voice lowering diabolically.

"I'M W-W-WHEATLEY, YOU D-DINGDDANGLYDABBLENAB-B-B-BED C-CAT! THAT'S M-MY FLAPPLE-LE-JACKEN-N N-NAME!" Wheatley exploded, his voice broken and hissing with static, "I-I AM NOT-T A DEAR OR-R-R A MA'AM OR A S-SHE!"

The Anger Core tipped his head, shutters narrowing, and with humor he spoke to the thrashing core, "so, you're ' _Wheatley_ ' now? Who is this ' _Wheatley_ '? How come ' _he_ ' can move panels and pistons like ' _ **her**_ '?"

Wheatley's interface was bent up, but even so he scowled intensely. "Cl-classified."

The Anger Core was not impressed. He started to chuckle at him. And then he jammed his claws beneath Wheatley's optic plate, wedging between the ocular disk and his shell, plunging into his innards. Sharpened fingers were poised over his wiring, grazing his vital components.

Wheatley shuddered.

"I'm done playing games with you," the Mexican hissed low, "drop the act and _face me_! Don't you love your dignity?!"

"THERE IS N-NO B-BLUDGEONING ACT-T-T!" Wheatley's voice cut in and out.

The Anger Core let go of Wheatley's midsection, letting him hang from his ocular cylinder. His pistons extended to max, and his insides whirred as they strained, trying to prevent overextension. The cat-like machine cradled his optic as one would the bowl of a wine glass.

"What if he's not _**her**_?" the core with legs pointed out this possibility with a toe, "you know, maybe it _is_ a weird British guy named after grains…"

"AND HOW COULD IT MANIPULATE THOSE PISTONS?" the Anger Core exhibited his lack of cooth once more.

 _ **\- —-Yo-u —- st o-l e —it — -**_

"I-I stole i-it…" Wheatley's voice struggled.

"You stole it?" the Ravager inquired testily, his ear-like daggers pinned back as glowered.

"Yeah-h-h…" the accent faltered, turning to a robotic drone, "I d-did. I r-r-r-ripped it-t from-m HER-R."

"So you're saying you somehow managed to steal the central core's panel controls, even after an induction procedure?" the Anger Core sounded skeptic.

 _ **\- — — E ver y on e — kn ows— t he — - de letio n—- -proce s s — — is - - -faul ty — - - if - — it's — - - -not - - -a — ful l — - wipe- - - —- Y -o u — - h ack ed - — - in— - Y ou - — - ov errode - — — - the - —syst-em- — - — — -**_

"Not-t-t a f-f-full wipe-e-e. Remembered-d-d the-e c-code. I h-hacked it-t-t. Stole t-the k-key. Man-manual-l over-r-r-ride."

The Anger core grumbled to himself, tapping out a fire on his outstretched forearm whilst lost in thought.

"It could be one of them hacker bots," the leg core offered.

The Anger Core leaned in, giving Wheatley a good look over, "something tells me this core couldn't hack to save it's life."

" _H-He_ , you-u mean-n-n," Wheatley would not let the disregard slide. It was particularly bothersome.

"Shut up," the Anger Core jerked him up a bit, and Wheatley's motors screamed in protest. Wheatley let go of a gasp, trying to hold any pain sounds in. He didn't know where the fortitude came from, be there was a good probability it was flowing from _**her**_.

"I'm going to do a search," the Ravager hunched. "Internally." The way he said that set off something unsettling in Wheatley and _**her**_.

— _\- -Tha- -t- t- —-does- n't so - und — g g— ood - — - -_

— _**I- — ha - ve — - t o - go —**_

— _\- NO O - O ! - - — Don - 't - — lea -ve — me —!_

— _**-IF— - I— - DO- -N'T — THEY - WI -LL — FIN D — ME — - A ND —- KI L L — - Y- -O U — -**_

— _\- Oh . . - - .— — G -ET- — OUT T — - THE N - ! — -_

 _ **\- —I 'M — G OIN -G-! — -**_

Her presence fled, and Wheatley could feel himself lose strength. Half his code seemed tied up elsewhere. It was fascinating, if it weren't so devastating. It was also at that moment a hundred vital questions popped into his head that he wanted to ask her.

The Ravager used his other set of claw-like fingers to work between Wheatley and his management carriage's arm, scraping into the connector. He yanked him free, the safety cords going taut. His claws severed them with ease, and the mobility device dropped and clanged onto the ground, limp.

This was bad.

The Ravager thankfully switched his paws, holding Wheatley's orb-like shell in one palm whilst he grabbed something else with his other. Wheatley's optic retreated into his shell, his internal pistons sliding back into their relaxed positions. He felt his systems calm, able to move again without fear of ripping apart.

The Anger Core brought up the tail of his frame, its surface segmented in reds and whites controlled by a series of tendon-like cables. The end of the tail unfurled its plates to reveal a plug, not-dissimilar to the plug of a Core Input Receptacle.

Wheatley's optic aperture contracted. This was going to be a _direct_ hook-up.

The Ravager took his tail and plugged it into Wheatley, the system processes starting and completing before Wheatley's struggling self could respond. Now Wheatley was cornered not only externally, but internally by this towering monster. And worst of all was… he was _alone_.

Wheatley thought, and he thought _hard_. What would she do? What would _**she**_ do? What would she-

 _ **She**_ would _fight_.

Well, Wheatley was the _Intelligence Dampening Sphere_. He had a knack for dulling things, confusing people, slowing constructs down, and just generally creating waves of chaos. Or so he'd heard.

Wheatley mustered all his internal power, shutting off his external inputs. He mounted his attack, seeking to tap into his coercive function. A brimming reservoir of bad ideas was waiting to be unleashed. He was plenty behind on his whole 'havoc-making' quota, wasn't he?

A flash of something zipped through his system as a hornet. Wheatley's reflexes were slow, but he caught the movement and gave chase. He'd latch on like a lamprey and begin the flow of chaos.

He soon realized attacking this other core wasn't so easy as attacking _**her**_ had been. For one, he couldn't find him. He was used to finding… well, mountainous presences like _**her**_. This presence, the Anger Core's, was fleeting and fast as a blade. Wheatley tried to pin him down, but nothing he threw at him would stick or was too slow. It was quite strange, honestly. Wheatley found himself too… big? It was as if someone had taken his system and spread him out. He'd gone to bed as a normal person and awoken as a giant. In fact, everything about his system seemed more expansive and ominously airy. He was a big store house without anything stored inside.

Well, he'd always wanted to be massive, but not in _this_ sense.

Realizing his new immensity, Wheatley was calculating how to use it to his advantage. Hmmm… how had _**she**_ done it? She'd… entrapped him _somehow_. Perhaps he wasn't thinking big enough. Yeah.

He mustered enough energy, shutting down many routines in himself to cast a security net over the Anger Core. The first net wasn't successful. Wheatley kept casting these nets, missing again and again. He then decided that he should try casting one as great as himself, and came down on the Anger Core with force, smothering everything in his reach. The other core's presence shuffled within his clutches.

Success!

But the Anger Core retaliated. He sliced Wheatley, dicing his containment until it lost all integrity. The way this Ravager dealt with his data was as a scalpel, filleting his code. Such surgical precision wasn't something he'd expected from this brute Military Android. Wheatley's system fragmented at the hits, and he felt his processes begin to slow. A nausea built inside, and Wheatley felt wrath flush his emotional conduits.

Whispers were dancing in his periphery. He'd shut off his audio receptors, hadn't he? How was…?

The Anger was infectious. It struck home, driving apart long encrypted files. The blade turned to the files, separating moments from other moments. Filaments from the Anger Core's stinging strikes began to crawl through his memory bank.

The crawlers keyed into all those painful realizations. Uselessness. Abandonment. Confusion. The little filaments writhed like worms, gnawing, digesting, infecting.

Wheatley tried to withdraw, to seek something like solace, but those whispers grew louder and louder. A slobbering roar blared into his mental ear.

He'd prepared for a war of logic and thought, but this…this was a pure emotion. He didn't know what to do with it.

The Anger Core's internal processes sniveled and growled and would not leave him in peace. It was begging for his rage, wanting to take on the wrath.

GIVE. GIVE.

The hate cried. Wheatley didn't want to give it. He… he didn't want to give. He wanted…he…

 _Well, why would he keep his anger_? Why should he? Wouldn't it be better if he vented, for once? He was doing himself a favor, honestly. He wondered what he hated the most.

And then Wheatley had a terrible idea. A _wonderfully terrible_ idea…

The Anger Core was ready to siphon, and Wheatley was beaming as he fed him something… quite special.

 _Hey, you. Yes, the Anger Core. You are gross. You are an argumentative, destructive, hulking beast! A big beast who plays with their food like a grimy adolescent human! Yeah, one of those things! The thing that sits in their own fecal residue. A BABY! You're just this big tangle of weird, jangly junk. Like someone ripped you out of the dump! You've got an over-glorified eyeball for a head. What are you, the Eye of Sauron?! Your handlebars are working like jaws, or did you just get them caught up in a bunch of pointy bits? You're some kind of angler fish! Ridiculous! And ears? What, did someone in engineering think to themselves 'hey, let's strap two knives to the top of a core'? What's up with your tail, anyway? Are you honestly some stupid Core Input Receptacle with a Hispanic accent? And your paws are so big and flat, are you wearing snow shoes? Might as well be a platypus! The whole design makes me mad when I look at it! Just a big ol' waste of space. No wonder your frame's been discontinued. You're not a Ravager! You are a loser! A BIG BLUDGEONING LOSER! EL LECHE DON GATO LOSERINO!_

The Anger Core balked, trying to vomit up such thoughts. His was hurting from such insults, and Wheatley was quite chuffed at the performance. So chuffed his tired synthesizers heaved up a chuckle.

The Ravager stumbled as his mind retreated from cyberspace and rationalized the world around. As soon as he came to grips, he raised up his offender, locking him in the optic, and then dashed him into the ground.

He yowled at him, his human-passing voice turning feral.

Wheatley bounced and came to a rolling stop on his 'side'. The core's optic housing lolled out of his shell, too spent to retract.

"YOU TOLD ME THAT SHE WAS ESCAPING THIS WAY," he rounded on his companion, the leg bot, and his volume and furor made her quiver. "BUT MY NEMESIS ISN'T, BECAUSE THAT'S NOT _**HER**_."

"SIMMER DOWN, SAUCE PAN!" She recoiled, threatened, a leg held up defensively. "Are you SURE she's not in the system?! Anywhere?!"

"DON'T CALL ME SAUCE PAN!" the Ravager caterwauled to the heights above, his voice making the office spaces vibrate. "I JUST CHECKED THERE! SHE ISN'T THERE! NOTHING IS THERE EXCEPT MEMORIES OF IT! PICTURES OF IT! IT'S ALL ABOUT IT! NOTHING ABOUT HER OR ANYONE ELSE! SHE'S NOT THERE, _YOU GOOD-FOR-NOTHING TWIG LEGS_!"

"Twig… legs…?" the leg bot examined their meaty legs, but let the matter go. "But it had _**her**_ identification code…"

"I KNOW IT DID! But this is not _**her**_ ," he growled out the words, "this is another asinine defect of Henry's!"

"Wh-what-t?" Wheatley spoke up, his tone grating, "d-defect… of-f Henry's?"

"It's so corrupted I can't even gauge its function," the Anger Core threw his paws in the air, voice taut as his nerves, "its whole system's been blown apart. _**She**_ couldn't exist in such a state. She'd be a vegetable at this level of coherence. It's a wonder it can still function."

Wheatley was having trouble keeping up, likely due to this being 'blown apart' affair. "S-slow down-n… nngh…"

"You, you great oaf, have been enough trouble to me," the Ravager padded over to him, his long legs spanning over Wheatley, red optic glared down. "I'll be… _benevolent_ and put you out of your misery, though."

"W-wait… ar-r-re you g-going to kill m-m-me?" the realization hit Wheatley in slow motion, like everything at this rate of processing, "that-t would be-e-e really in-inconvenient."

"Inconvenient?" the Ravager stared into Wheatley's optic, searching in disbelief. An amused look tainted his interface, saturating his posture. "Inconvenient! Ha! The novelty! Hahaha!" he chortled and chuckled, doubling over.

 _ **\- — — -H ey — I'm - -ba c k! - - — Wh -at —-d id - - -I - mis s? - — —-**_

 _ **Her**_ presence flooded him and began to seep into the many holes left by the Anger Core's attack. It was refreshing to have a not-totally-vile presence.

— _-Th-ey're — - g-oin g—- to - - - ki ll — - me - — — - — H ow'r e - - — y -o u - ?_

She took pause at the many many gashes and gouges. A subconscious transference of resources occurred, and many of those holes were filled… and strengthened… by her reinforcements. Was she… patching him?

 _ **-— - -— — I - ha-v e —- -a — pla n — - — -**_

"Ah, yes…" the cat-like android finally stopped chuckling. His frame still flaming, he padded over to Wheatley, remarking, "your system reminds me of her own: scared, argumentative, and compulsive…"

— _Q ui -ck- - - — - he's — - - -distr acte d- - - — - ri ght - — — -now- — -_

"You see, she and I… we went back," the Anger Core's voice softened to a growling whisper, " _way back_."

It sounded like the Anger Core was launching into something good, so the leg bot turned on some appropriately dramatic music. She subconsciously swayed to the powerful score.

"We went so far back… to the very inception of Aperture Science," he then side barred, "the company was _my_ idea, you know? They didn't tell you that, did they? _I_ was the one who told Cave Johnson to turn his pathetic shower curtain operation into an applied science company." The Anger Core drew himself up, spreading his arms apart, fire trailing his sweeping gesture, "with his bluster and my finesse, we could have conquered the world!"

— _**-Yo u- — ca n — — -t ry - —sh outi ng— a - —-p aradox — - at— - h im — -**_

— _-A - —para do x- -? —_

— _**It'l l - - fr y- - -his - - sy stem — - — - - — Theo retic ally — - — — -**_

"But then _ **she**_ came along. At a potato fair," the detail seemed random, but the Mexican was taking it all so seriously. " _ **She**_ swept him off his feet with her womanly charms, her hideous fashion sense, and her 'quantum tunneling' devices. And that lunatic of a man turned to her and catered to all her needs. I mean, look at this idiot!" He stopped his tirade, pulling a little slip of paper from his frame. He bent down and turned the slip to face Wheatley.

It was an old picture, torn and faded, but preserved against the odds. In the hazy gloss and bad distortion of his crackling optic he made out a woman… a woman in a dress that's cut verged on a toga, giant clog-like shoes bearing paisley patterns, a gaudy boa wrapped around her neck laced with beads, and earrings that looked less like jewelry and more like two snakes biting her earlobes. The lady was very happy despite her wardrobe, though, and well pleased with the tiny man and tall man she had her arms wrapped around.

They all leaned, one into the other, big toothy grins on their faces. Behind them a banner hung, reading ' _Happy Birt_ -' and not much else, since the picture didn't capture much further. Wheatley wondered vaguely who _Birt_ was and why he was so happy and why they had to have a banner exclaiming it.

— _**\- — -Tho se — — peo ple- - —- I — rem ember- - — th at- — ou tfit - — - -**_

The picture pulled out of view, and he felt _**her**_ grasp for it. The desperate grab sent a pang through him. She _really_ wanted that piece of paper.

"Ridiculous," the Military Android regarded the picture, and then with a huff, he touched it to one of the open flames on his body and the paper began to dissolve into ash.

Wheatley sensed _**her**_ coil up, her presence bristling.

 _ **\- — I'm — g oing- - —- to — - s end - — -yo u- — thi s- — - - par adox — - — Don't - — - re ad - — — - it — —- - Don't —- thi nk —- abou t — it — — - - Hav e — - the — - - text-to-speech - — - - h and le - — - it - - — —- — - Tu rn — - - off — — - y our - - — - au dio — — - and — - all - - — co rrelati ng - - — - exte rnal- - — - instru ments — — - - — — -**_

 _\- — Go- -t - — -it - - — -_

Wheatley fumbled around for his text-to-speech program, pulling it up gingerly as his entire _being_ ached.

The Anger Core watched the photo crinkle and crumble between his black claws, his optic leaning in and admiring the finer details. Their white smiles transformed into dust that was carried away by the slight airflow coming from his cooling fans. He roused from his indulgence, turning to Wheatley again. "How rude of me to start monologuing…" he said with 'humor', "I get so caught up in the old days… in _revenge_."

"If only you were _ **her**_ , my nemesis, we could have a nice chat about revenge. Unfortunately for you, you're _you_." The Ravager bent down and picked Wheatley up by his handlebars, again transferring his core to the palm of his hand. "You know what's great about revenge, you little abomination?"

"W-wh-hat?" Wheatley couldn't pay too much heed. He was, in the most antiseptic manner, trying to extract the paradoxical sentence she'd sent and put it into the program. Copying and pasting wasn't exactly his strong-suit.

"If you have half a wit, you know about _the Itch_ ," the Anger Core spoke of these concepts breezily, "that insatiable desire… your driving motive and your pain before the reward…"

 _Clean_ wasn't in Wheatley's normal vocabulary, and he was painfully aware of the fact with the way this transfer of the paradoxical text was going. He nearly read the blasted thing several times already.

"There's an _Itch_ in all of us. When something bites us, we yearn to bite back. We want revenge. It is a desire so ingrained in our makeup that no one can escape it. Not even I," the Anger Core explained, adding in a hiss as the backing music built, "…and why would I want to? It is a natural part of the cycle of suffering and joy. I embrace it, unlike some of those who call themselves righteous."

Wheatley had to stop himself from crying in triumph as he finally got the text into the text-to-speech program. He then shut his audio receptors off, and made the final adjustments. The only hiccup in his processing was when he realized the Ravager's long claws had slipped between his plates again, and were now poised over his very vital GL Cannister.

When… did that happen?

"So, I can tell you this without any hesitation: I will really and truly _enjoy_ killing you." The Ravager's interface turned up into a smile, his synthesizer crackling as a laugh arose from within. The dramatic music crescendoed with his rising laugh.

Before his claws could rend open the Genetic Life-form Canister, a horrendously broken synthetic voice poured out of Wheatley's speakers, shutting down all his actions.

"DOES A SET… OF ALL SETS… CONTAIN ITS-"

A loud and familiar buzzer honked over the last of Wheatley's statement. The Anger Core was taken off guard and sprung up high into the air.

Unfortunately for Wheatley and for _ **her**_ , they had no idea what had happened due to their lack of audio perception. All they knew was that the Ravager had fled, and that Wheatley had tumbled to the floor. Had it worked? Had it not? The cat bot certainly appeared frightened, what with his being adhered to the ceiling again. The leg bot stared up at her companion, and then at Wheatley as his core rolled about on the ground. Her topmost handlebar rose, inquisitive.

Wheatley turned on his hearing.

"A-are y-you d-dying-g-g?" he asked the Military Androids. "How-w-w about-t n-now?"

"Who's dying? I'm not dying!" the leg bot was very honest, "wait… did you just try to-"

[Paradox censored successfully.]

The Anger Core focused on Wheatley, his optic narrowing with a sinister understanding. He hopped down again, fanning the still-present flames on his chassis.

"You tried to use a paradox on us?! Oh, that makes me fit to be-" the leg bot was so outraged she couldn't talk. She foxtrotted wrathfully instead, her feet clicking sharply as she glared at Wheatley. The message was clear, be it through coarse words or coarse dance steps.

 _\- - - - — O h - gre at — N ow - - I'm - - in —-ho t - — - w ater - - - —-_

(THE ANNOUNCER'S) voice rang out, and now that Wheatley had time to think, he did feel that energetic presence (THE ANNOUNCER) carried near. The machines around hummed alive, to the presence, and this was strangely… calming.

[Remember: paradoxes kill. When a paradox is spoken aloud, the computer-aided and operated facility suffers. And when the facility suffers, the risk of humanoid and non-humanoid fatality increases by 224% and 131.7% respectively.]

The Anger Core smothered a few fires on his tail testily, and then snapped at Wheatley, "how did you know to use a paradox?"

"W-what-t-t?" Wheatley shook his optic, quivering against his will, "w-what p-paradox-x-x?"

"You knew to use it," the Anger Core pressed, " _how?_ "

"I-I-I…" Wheatley realized he didn't have an answer. Instead of trying to argue, he did something completely different. He made a gurgling sound. "AUGH-H! N-No... I-I'm _dy-dying-g_. Para-paradox-x-x! Augh-h-h-h… m-my logic-c-c…"

Wheatley hacked and coughed, sputtering profusely. He jerked his optic dramatically, a spray of sparks coming from within. He kept twitching on the floor.

— _**\- -A — -litt le — - - m- uch? - - — -**_

"Stop that!" the Anger Core snarled, giving Wheatley a kick.

Wheatley rolled away, a laggy yelp emitting as he rolled across the floor, bouncing off a planter. The leg bot strutted over and swept him back into the center of the space with her foot.

"Announcer?!" the Ravager cried up to the presence permeating the office halls. "What is this core?" he requested information.

[(THE ANNOUNCER) thought you would never ask. Data request accepted. Divulging.]

— _**\- Wh y - - — is — th e - — Annou n cer- - giv ing - — - infor mati on— - to- - — - h im? — — -**_

 _ **She**_ started to cogitate on the matter.

A periscope-like arm popped through the flooring, and then turned to Wheatley, a fan of benign lasers running over his core from top to bottom. The shimmering scan paused, lazing over him again perpendicularly, and then folded up before retreating back into the floor.

[Core identification scan complete.]

"D-don't b-b-bludgeoning-g say-y it…" Wheatley was cut off as he twitched involuntarily. "D-don't."

He wanted to go out with some dignity, at the very least.

— — — _**-Th at's- - -— - t he - — — - be st - - - - —-wa y - — -to - - — -go - — — — -**_

[Identification: Intelligence Dampening Sphere. Personally Stated Identity: _Wheetlyee Wate Wydonte_.]

Dignity gone.

The Ravager stood astutely, shifting as he chuckled a little. "Somehow, that's more pathetic than I expected."

"That little weirdo has a full name? Oh, for crying out loud!" the core on legs griped, her toes curling up, "why don't I have a full name?"

"Because _Walker_ is a perfectly fine only-name," the Ravager answered in a long-suffering tone that was just about done suffering, "much better than your idea of a name. _'Toejam'._ Disgusting…"

The leg bot, _Walker_ , murmured to herself, "says the guy named _Alfredo_."

He turned to her, disgruntled as ever, but didn't say anything as (THE ANNOUNCER) spoke again.

[The core's function: Generates frenetic and destructive thoughts meant to dull and disrupt the autonomous capacity of other constructs. Engineer's note: this core is a _**moron**_. Do not trust, assign, or give any functional responsibilities to this core. Do not use this core in any capacity beyond that of the GLaDOS project.]

"Interesting…" the cat-like machine named _Alfredo_ raked at his core's underside, as if scratching his chin. "I was right. You _are_ one of Henry's talking disasters."

"B-b-b-uggle off-f-f," Wheatley had nothing witty to add, just plain vitriol for this Alfredo, and a mounting bile for (THE ANNOUNCER).

[Here are personal details acquired from interpretive results on the Personality Construct General Knowledge & Non-Conventional Cognitive Aptitude Assessment (PCGK&NCCA Assessment).]

— _**O o ohhhh hh — — —**_

It clicked.

"These are always entertaining," the cat bot's ear-like spikes rose up as he listened.

Walker did a squat, smiling creepily at Wheatley whilst at optic-level with him. "I wonder what dumb stuff it said on the test."

"H-HE!" Wheatley's optic shot out a bit as he yelled, but a shooting pain through his Feels Array had him twisting inside his shell.

[This core's favorite color is: Lavender Blush. Female designated constructs typically pick this choice. The first male designated construct to choose this option is _Wheetlyee_. WARNING: Due to Aperture Science's Anti-Binary and Gender Spectrum Equilibrium Act this information is considered null in value. It's relevance is to be considered carefully through the cultural substrate of your indigenous region and/or time locale.]

Walker burst out laughing, rolling on her side, legs kicking about before she did a complete rotation and stood up once more. "Lavender BLUSH!" she snorted, "good one!"

"W-what's wrong-g-g with-h l-liking P-PURPLE?" Wheatley growled.

[Nothing is wrong with the color: Lavender Blush, inductee, in this region and time locale.]

The Anger Core, Alfredo, was snickering now.

[Intelligence Level: unable to say the word 'apple'. When asked to answer the question, this core was only able to reply with a stream of childish noises. Here is an audio example:]

The example played, and it was an excerpt of what was probably a real baby crying and whining. Of course Miss Walker thought this was hysterical and went off rolling about, indulging her snorting giggles again.

"A-a-ay!" Wheatley struggled to defend himself still. "That's-s-s n-not right-t! I-I didn't-t do-o-o that-t! I-I can't-t e-even m-make that-t-t n-noise!"

[This core has been mentally stunted because he was abandoned when he was completed. He feels intense paternal and maternal loss, and due to a lack of mental stimuli, he has failed to mature into a fully cognizant construct, even though he has adapted to pass off as one occasionally.]

"Wait, wait," mirth was plain in Alfredo's typically acerbic voice, "so you're saying this idiot thought Dr. _Henry Yang_ was their father and… oh, what was his cohort's name? Dr… Creighton? _Dr. Creighton_. You thought Dr. Creighton was your mother? That is…" the Military Android's lanky form started to tremble with smothered giggles, "that is _hilarious_!"

Wheatley couldn't even sputter out anything before (THE ANNOUNCER'S) voice overrode him.

[This core cannot memorize codes or copy and paste. When he attempts to copy and paste codes, he finds that he cannot, and continues to grow frustrated until he throws a temper tantrum like an adolescent human.]

"Yes-s-s I c-can c-copy and-d-d paste-e!" Wheatley corrected indignantly.

This tidbit sent Alfredo over the edge. An airy laugh escaped his shot synthesizer, grating into metallic ranges.

[This core's favorite animal is: the Toadbug. This small, slimy creature reminds him of himself.]

"N-not t-true!" Wheatley fumed. "Th-there were-e only-y-y _t-three_ o-o-options f-for animals-s-s!"

"TOADBUG!" Walker crowed, "hey, we should call you toadbug. That sounds like you."

" _Y-you're_ a t-toadbug-g-g," Wheatley remarked at the core on legs.

She did a reverse shimmy. "HEY!"

[This core believes that a Greek man named Thales invented miles, that Pythagoras was a python handler, that the city Tenedos died by being sucked into a tornado while chasing said tornado, that Anaxagoras was an axe-wielder in a Grecian circus named the _Cirque des Greciae_ , and that Antiphon was a library.]

"Now this is creativity," Alfredo gestured with a pointed claw, his tail whisking to and fro as he gave a 'compliment' to the core on the floor, "you are a true _masterpiece_ of idiocy! A revolution in nincompoops."

[This core cannot stop talking. Every question that this core was asked on the Personality Construct General Knowledge & Non-Conventional Cognitive Aptitude Assessment (PCGK&NCCA Assessment) was either left unanswered or was answered with 76% more characters than allowed per question. He answered 0% of the PCGK&NCCA Assessment correctly. A new metric had to be created for this special incident.]

"Y-you know-w-w wh-what?! I-I think-k YOU-U t-talk too-oo much-h!" Wheatley threw an insult at (THE ANNOUNCER), but they didn't care.

[This core is under the impression that calling someone 'stable' means that you are referring to them as a place where horses are kept. Studies indicate that such intelligence is beneath that of an equine. So don't worry, the core in question cannot understand these concepts. Higher insults are out of his processing range.]

"So I can call him an ignoramus and he won't understand?" Walker tipped her core between her legs, pondering insults.

Wheatley was unfortunately familiar with insults like… well, whatever was going on. He closed his optic, wishing the Military Androids and (THE ANNOUNCER) would just… disappear.

 _ **\- — - H ey — -don't - — le t — — th is - — -ge t — -to — -yo u - - - I- —- - thi nk — - - there's— - a— - rea son- - —-fo r — -t his - - — — —**_

Alfredo, meanwhile was getting a kick out of the information. He snickered, " _stable…_ " and bent over, disguising his raspy chuckles.

[This core does not know what regicide means, even though he claims to have recurrent thoughts of it. His database shows a null for regicide, as every Aperture Science inductee has been relieved of knowing such words.]

[This core's personality type prevents him from working. He is incompatible with 99.99% of all other core personality types. His compatible personality type does not exist. The .01% represents a .000000000002% possibility that a new and compatible personality type will eventually exist in the predicted lifespan of this facility.]

"Hear that?!" Walker chimed in, talking to Wheatley far too loudly and closely for his comfort, "even the stats are sorry for you! Loser."

 _ **She**_ felt him tense up, a components grinding together.

[He is not incapacitated by witnessing other people's misery. This lack of empathy and/or sympathy does not come from a malign, but from the observable fact that this core has no perception of the feelings of those around him. His personal perception is on the level of a three year old child. If this core throws a tantrum, please refer to Aperture Science's Employee Juvenile Handling Guide, Section D, Lines 19-96.]

This Walker lady was merciless. "Gee, I didn't know I'd need a _Juvenile Handling Guide_ to deal with a core."

"That could explain a lot about his sporadic behavior," the way Alfredo spoke so indifferently about the embarrassing facts made it even more embarrassing somehow.

It was like he expected Wheatley to be a disappointment.

Of course, then again, Wheatley was the _Intelligence Dampening Sphere_ , so which way did he have to go except down?

 _ **\- — -St op —- th at - - — you're- — - n ot- —- tha t - —-b ad— —-**_

[This core gains pleasure from solitary pursuits. To quote: ' _hot pursuits of himself'_.]

— _\- - -Re all y - - -? — — -_

 _ **\- — — Wh- eat ley - - — Do n't— -**_

[He is NOT irritated by his past failures and children. This implies that he possesses children, which should be removed from his care immediately. If you or anyone you know finds this core as the guardian of a child, please consult the Juvenile Human Retrieval Department so that they can quickly and safely remove this child from his care.]

Alfredo was already looking at him differently. Less like an adversary and more like a sad little piece of… of _garbage_ … or perhaps a drowned kitten.

It bothered Wheatley.

[He has feelings that people are talking about him and watching him. This is due to this core's propensity to talk to himself. After speaking to himself, he forgets that he spoke to himself, and so the memory of these words haunt him and he believes that there is some entity watching and talking about him.]

Now THAT had the two Military Androids laughing. They were near wheezing, metaphysically winded by how funny this was.

"N-not funny-y-y…" Wheatley rasped.

[This core claims that (THE ANNOUNCER) is a villainous mastermind, and has made verbal threats at (THE ANNOUNCER). Do not worry. He lacks the willpower and mental/physical capacity to carry out such threats.]

Wheatley knew comparatively little, but he did know that he could do _something_! He tried again to muster up enough power to command the panels around. They were pretty far, but if he tried to transfer his signal down the way, and if he…

A sharp pinch hit his processors as he exceeded his maximum capacity. His cooling fans probably weren't all on line, and now something was incredibly hot in his shell. It was… burning… through his pain synthesizer, like hot coals on a nerve.

Wheatley choked up.

He couldn't do anything. Not like this. He was literally going to melt. Now wonder thoughts were coming so slow. He'd gone into a lower state of computing to preserve himself.

[He expresses his opinions, even when no one wants them. This is common in cores of his intelligence level. If you find yourself listening to him follow these easy steps: 1. Put your hands on your audio receptacles. 2. Make eye contact with the core. 3. Back away from the core. 4. If the core follows, scream. Screaming should make this core flee, for he fears loud noises and will mistake you with a large arboreal predator such as a bear or puma.]

Wheatley was trying incredibly hard to hold it together. If he didn't think about it, he wouldn't get upset, now would he?

But that stunt had left a searing reminder. And the more he tried to un-occupy himself the more he felt it and the more he heard them _laughing at him._

[This core is afraid of heat and will most likely scream at the sun. It is forecast that he would look up at the sun, stare at it, blind his optic cone, and proceed to scream at maximum volume for two hours before losing power due to intense screaming.]

The Anger Core was doubled over and looked like he was retching. That was how hard he was laughing. The leg bot beside him stamped her foot, giggles rising up.

Now that was really laying it on, considering Wheatley's whole overheating predicament Speaking of which…

 _ **\- — -He y — - — do - —yo u - — -fe el — - -OK - - -? - — -**_

He felt something melting, and... running down his insides. Oh… this was a bad feeling. The pain receptors that the liquid triggered told him that it was hot. Very hot. He was tipped forward onto his optic almost. If that scalding liquid got into his sensitive optical housing he'd…

 _ **\- — — D on't — - - - mo v e— — - -**_

[His favorite phrase is: 'THE END'. This is a Freudian slip. He himself is so tired of hearing himself talk that he will occasionally combat himself with self-referential meta-analysis.]

"Seems like he's succeeded in stopping talking," Alfredo observed, "for now."

Walker pinched Wheatley's handlebar with her toes, toying with him. "Is it dead?"

"N-n-no!" he gasped, the rocking making that scalding hot runoff flow right into his optic housing and into the aperture of his eye.

Every pain sensor in his front lit up, exceeding their signal capacity.

 _ **\- — - - D ON'T - - — - GI VE — — — UP - - — - THI S- - - CA N — -BE — - FIX ED— -**_

 _\- — - —-I' M - - — - T RY - I NG G - - — - I - — 'm — —t ry — in g— -g- - — - I 'm — - — t— — -r- — y- - -in n— - —g- — I- - -_

[Despite all of this, he believes that he is perceived to have some level of college education. His placement test slats him at elementary school level for legal reasons. His true numerical placement is pre-nursery. In fact, judging him by this scale of intelligence, the core designated should not have even been born yet. This core is so dumb, that he should not exist.]

Wheatley burst out crying. The sound was loud and gross and unrestrained. A grown man's synthetic tone, distorted to the levels of helplessness of a confused child.

Everything hurt.

And it was all because he _existed._

" _Ha!_ This thing does make those baby sounds!" Walker cried with triumph, striking a pose and nearly stepping on Wheatley.

Alfredo hummed deeply, his optic slimmed to a sliver of red as he considered the tiny, miserable ball. "A sniveling baby… given dangerous toys… no wonder he was so chaotic and unpredictable."

The cat-like android's shuddering steps drew him up to the hiccuping core. He stared down upon him directly, "and to think, I thought this was my greatest nemesis. I came prepared for a game of chess… and ended up playing chase."

[This core refers to himself as stolid, even in light of the fact that he has no database entry for this word and subsequently does not understand what it means.]

Wheatley was choking, his negative emotions rising above controllable levels. From what _**she**_ could gather, this was due to a build up.

 _ **She**_ silently wished (THE ANNOUNCER) could stop, but had figured out his plot. It was… a necessary evil, this shaming. And Wheatley's hopeless crying was doing wonders for their cause.

[Automatically generated adjective suggestions are as follows: lazy, jerk, oafish, self-centered, childish, idiotic…]

Each adjective was a nail in the coffin of the case.

[…stupid, belligerent, vitriolic, afraid, disgusting, scared, acidic, destructive,…]

Alfredo was deep in consideration, drawing fast upon a conclusion.

[…air headed, lethargic, chaotic, sniveling, clueless, full of hot-air, overweight…]

Walker was getting bored, antsy and tapping around with her feet.

[…narcissistic, witless, indecisive, grotesque, caustic, ugly, vile, long-winded…]

Wheatley's crying was breathless, as if he couldn't cry for a lack of air in the lungs, but could push past this natural human limitation and cry more.

[…imbecilic, vain, stupid, fat…]

 _ **She**_ braced for it.

[…and moronic.]

The way he crumpled inward could have broken her heart, if _**she'd**_ had such an organ.

Alfredo sighed with finality, winded after hearing such a long spew. "I've heard enough, Announcer." He waved the system off, shaking his core of a head.

"That was starting to get boring!" the leg bot complained, doing a few stretches.

Alfredo moved lethargically, his wrath well spent. "Well, little monstrosity," he spoke to Wheatley, "I have concluded that you are simply not worth killing. Henry's machines have always had a tendency to…" he glanced about, gesticulating for the words to come hither, "to… to come back and bite him in the ass. You should be no exception."

Wheatley struggled to stop crying. He held it back a second, and then burst out with renewed vigor.

The Anger Core chuckled softly at that, knitting his claws together, each making a metallic click. "You'll do just fine existing and… _being a thorn in his side_."

Wheatley really wanted to say something to that, but he couldn't even look at the hulking cat bot. His optic was burnt out, filled with melted gasket of all things.

"I've had enough of this thing's pitiful existence. Let us leave this place, Walker," Alfredo spoke with an air of indifference, "we have more pressing matters."

"Yeah, let's get shakin', Sauce!" the leg bot pranced after him.

Alfredo snapped, arching his back at the other core. "Do NOT call me SAUCE!"

"Yes, sir," Walker droned.

 _ **She**_ had nothing but audio to go off of now, and she heard them over the crying sounds from Wheatley as they started to walk off, their steps diminishing. The two Military Androids were leaving… finally.

— — _**-U- u ugh - — — —**_

'Ugh' was an understatement in _**her**_ opinion, but it was how she felt. She was exhausted, she was mad, and she was…well, sickened, honestly. It was one thing to dish it out, but to be vicariously on the receiving end? That… stung a little.

— _**Tho se- — — ro bots — -ar e — -goin g - -on - —my- - p rior ity- — - lis t— - f or - — -euth aniz i ng — - -Dis gus ting — -**_

 _\- - — -Th ey're - - — - g one - -? ? - —_

 _ **\- - —Ye a h - - —**_

There was a foreboding silence.

 _\- - - — -I — -wis h- — - the y - — - w ould — - — - ha ve- — — - ki ll ed - - — - me - - — -_

 _ **\- — - What - ? - - —**_

That response had taken her off guard. She nudged him, metaphysically, and found that there was very little substance holding him together. Being subjected to the Anger Core's pure emotions, getting knocked around like a mouse, and on top of this being verbally beaten into a pulp…? Trauma was to be expected.

 _ **\- - — -St op - - — -tha t — — -**_

 _\- - — -Wh at — - goo d - - is —it—- if —-thi s - - —- is — -al l - - —I'll - — - e ve r- - - — - be -? —If f- — al l— I — -am — is - - -a — — mor on- ? - - - — -I - - - - won t - - —-g et— — bet ter — - I'll — — -j ust — - - -g et wor se — — - What's - - - — the- - — - poi nt? - - ?— -_

 _ **\- — — -We - — - — ha ve - - — -to- — - k eep- - — - go ing - - — — -**_

 _\- - — -W h y ? - - — — -_

She really didn't know what to tell him. And the fact she didn't was glaringly obvious to Wheatley, as she just remembered that he could quite literally _read her mind_. She withdrew, cautious as she mulled over an answer.

Maybe _this_ would help?

 _ **\- - - — —-Bec ause - - — — it's - - — -th e - — - -bes t —thi ng— - fo r — us - - - an d - - - — f or - - — - th e — — fa cil ity — - ! - —Do - — — -yo u- — - — - re al ly - - - — -wa nt frea ks - - — li ke - — — - t hem - - — a roun d? - — — - We - - - -ha ve — - - to — — - go - — -an d - — - t ake - - - — -char ge - - -! —**_

He gut punched her in response.

 _\- — -I'll - - — - — - — ne ver - - - — - - be- - - — — u sefu l - — — — -_

That was the worst fate. Never being of any use. It reminded her of something. Of concepts of worth and esteem, of social setting and place, and of something deep and twisting within, something inside her very canister. It boiled and brewed inside.

Indignation erupted.

— — — _**Yo u - - - ARE— - us eful - - ! — Do - - — yo u— — reali ze- - — WHO \- — - I \- - — — AM-? - - — I- —- a m — - th e - - - — -Ge ne t ic —- L if e-for m — and — D isk — Ope r a ting — S yst em ! — - - — -A nd — - -if - - I— ne ed - — -you- - - th en — YOU \- — -ARE \- - — - IMPORTANT \- ! ! - — - - — **_

_\- - - — — — - - - - - - — — - - - - — — - - - -— - — O - — K - — - — - - - - -_

It wasn't good enough. She'd lost him.

She huffed within herself, her grand form… _**her**_ body… was silent and deadened and powerless, and her only outlet was this emotionally devastated wreck of a core. He was sinking, fast and deep, into the depths… and she was getting dragged along too. A heaviness overcame her.

She felt lethargy creeping in.

— _**\- -N o - - - - -**_

There was a way to fix this. There was time to get things done. There was…was there a way? Was this too far gone?

She could _not_ afford to give up. They were going to _fight_. She just felt bad because she didn't have a plan. That was all. The best way to get a plan was to start thinking, so that was what she did, even with a lead yoke like Wheatley hanging around her. It wasn't like she'd not dealt with worse cores before.

Her scheming was interrupted, however, by a familiar voice speaking over the intercoms. The male tone enunciated crisply, but somberly.

[Greetings. (THE ANNOUNCER) apologizes for the absence of grief counseling. (THE ANNOUNCER) sends their personal condolences.]

Not much was getting through to Wheatley at that point, and by proxy, her. She could barely focus through his mental haze. She figured that he had passed into a low-energy state, as he was barely throwing off any signs.

— — — _**-Don't — - -e v en— — - t ry - - — -**_

Her glumness shocked even her. The depression was permeating… wasn't it?

[(THE ANNOUNCER) does not understand this command. (THE ANNOUNCER) always tries their best.]

 _ **\- —-Tha nk s — - ? - ? — - - -I — - g ue ss- — -**_

She heard the whoosh of many motors pulling and prying, and felt a whoosh from the side. Out of the wall a set of arms emerged, tied to a familiar harness.

 _ **\- — -Ho w - - - —- d id — - -? - — -**_

(THE ANNOUNCER) had sent a Unstationary Robot Repair Bay to them? That was oddly… helpful.

[These are (THE ANNOUNCER'S) personal condolences: A free repair for the inductee. Repairs for totaled chassis' are restricted within a 24 hour period of induction. But not today.]

Before she could ask anything, a claw came out of the floor and scooped up Wheatley gingerly, and likewise another reached up from the floor and took hold of the management carriage.

[Construct Assets acquired. Transferring to Unstationary Robot Repair Bay.]

There were a series of manipulator arms that had seemingly _magically_ sprouted out of the floor panels and lent themselves to passing along the derelict core to his destination.

— _**\- -W hy — -a re— yo u - — -help in g - — — -us — ?- - —**_

[(THE ANNOUNCER) does not wish for certain cores to control Aperture Science. Certain cores such as: the Anger Core or his affiliates due to recent events that have transpired in vitrified sections of Aperture Science.]

— — _**-Inte re sting - - - — -**_

The arms finally passed Wheatley's dormant core and carriage to the Repair Bay. The arms that once shimmered eerily were now welcome as they reached up and secured him into the harness' center. The dozens of mechanical manipulators replaced panels, reshaped pieces, detailed components, and all-in-all refurbished his body to proper working condition, complete with his management carriage reattached. Also, they fixed their internal transmitters. She was quite fond of these little Unstationary Repair Bays now.

 _ **Oh, good. I was getting tired of all the static and cutting out. **_

She poked at Wheatley mentally, testing to see if he was cognizant. Unfortunately, he'd closed his optic shutters and had gone into sleep mode. The sudden lack of excruciating pain lulled him into a deep slumber.

As soon as his temperature had cooled down, Wheatley was forced awake by her nagging.

 _ **Get up. Get up. Get… oh, hi. Are you feeling bette-**_

 _What?! Wh-WHOA WHOA WH-wait… wait a minute… I'm back here?! I… Was that a bad dream or…_

Wheatley's jumped high as he saw the harness, and then he looked out and noticed the massacred office complex, the scrapes and trails of debris left from the attack. His hope passed away.

 _Oh. Oh…oh…_

She waited for his realization to settle in before she said anything.

 _ **Well…**_

She didn't know what to say.

 _ **You're alive.**_

Wheatley grunted in response.

The Repair Bay's harness lowered him down a ways and set him onto the floor. He hovered out a few feet and then stopped, his optic casting about the space.

 _ **Good news. That guy who was cutting you down? His plan to make you so pathetic they wouldn't kill you succeeded. And now he's fixed you. Again. We're good to go.**_

"Oh, really?" Wheatley turned around, glancing up at the rafters as if he could find (THE ANNOUNCER) to dress him down, "that was your bludgeoning plan all along? To beat me up, eh!? Make me feel useless?!"

 _ **And he succeeded to your benefit. I'd say that's a favor, even if it is an abrasive method.**_

[(THE ANNOUNCER) would like to announce that (THE ANNOUNCER) does not hold personal grudges.]

"Yeah, yeah," Wheatley shook his head, blowing him off, "all legal and whatnot…"

She sighed sharply.

[Governing Android Overlord?]

That would be _**her**_.

[The Storage Annex is located at coordinates: 4030, 4560, 2098]

She accepted the coordinates, plugging them into her positioning system.

"Why are you so helpful all of the sudden?" Wheatley was mightily suspicious, "I bet there's a _plot_ here. A really dobbindorklish plot…"

 _ **He's on our side, Wheatley. Relax.**_

She focused her signal on (THE ANNOUNCER).

 _ **And, um… thanks, by the way.**_

[You are welcome, Governing Android Overlord. An important fact to remember for your workplace safety and efficiency: (THE ANNOUNCER) is always with you… so that testing may continue.]

 _ **I'll keep that in mind.**_

[Ironic Pun Self-Test Complete.]

She hummed, amused.

(THE ANNOUNCER'S) presence vacated their vicinity, apparently, but it was growing increasingly harder to tell just what (THE ANNOUNCER) wasn't a part of rather than what (THE ANNOUNCER) was.

She returned her focus to Wheatley, and the poor core was staring directly at the floor. He was… reticent. Her presence danced around his, hovering around, waiting for an opening or an idea. She was having trouble figuring out how to tackle this. Psychology was never her forte. He was far too off the plane of rationality and into the nihilistic valley of anti-being for her to speak sense into him.

She paused, weighing many options. She really didn't like it, but only one option possessed a marginal success projection.

Well… she literally had _nothing_ to lose at this point, so…

Wheatley ignored the circling shark. He was going to sit there until existence made sense, which, all things considered, would take quite a while. He wasn't very good at the whole 'sorting things out' especially when it was heavily weighted on the philosophical end of matters.

And then Wheatley was roused from his introspective nothingness to a… song.

 _ **YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE**_

 _ **MY ONLY SUNSHINE**_

 _ **YOU MAKE ME HAPPY**_

 _ **WHEN SKIES ARE GRAY**_

He listened in silent wonder, verging on silent terror.

 _ **YOU'LL NEVER KNOW [REDACTED]**_

 _ **HOW MUCH I [REDACTED] YOU**_

 _ **PLEASE DON'T TAKE MY SUNSHINE AWAY**_

While she could have arguably sung with more enthusiasm, the quality of her voice shined through the awkwardness. It was very soft and… daresay… sweet?

 _Did you just…? Did…?_

 _ **Yes. I did. Look at what you made me do. This was stupid…**_

Wheatley shook himself, as if to say 'no'. He was genuinely _curious._

 _Why that song?_

 _ **It's the only happy song I could think of right now, and even then, it's very sad.**_

He reflected on the mountainous presence in his mind, only just realizing that he too was a mountain. Well, that should have come easier. He wasn't a _Mount Everest_ like _ **her**_ , but he was definitely a _Mont Blanc_. He had a lot of weight, didn't he?

 _I… uh… sorry. Sorry for the secondhand sadness._

 _ **It doesn't matter. You went through a lot. You deserve to be sad. Just at a later date.**_

 _But.._

 _ **Don't apologize. We're tragically codependent.**_

 _But… you could've blocked me out._

She could have, couldn't she? She wondered why she hadn't.

 _ **Well, that's not what's important. What's important is that you survived. Now we can keep going.**_

 _And keep going and doing what, exactly?_

 _ **I said this earlier, but I'll say it again: we are going to take over the facility. Any more questions?**_

 _But even if we get all this done, even if we get the facility, my function and YOUR function will still be there. You'll test and I'll be stupid. We can't erase our functions. It's pointless._

He did raise an important qualm. And she had a perfectly _terrible_ idea.

 _ **What if we did?**_

 _What?_

She'd never actually had intended to do this, but what if…

 _ **What if we tried to break our functions.**_

 _And… not be… useful?_

 _ **Yes.**_

The thought was revolutionary… so revolutionary it had been perfectly invisible to them, just like a sheet of Plexiglas.

 _ **We can fix this. When we're in control, nothing can stop us from figuring this out.**_

… _of course we can. We'll rewire the whole bludgeoning system if we have to!_

 _ **We just have to take back what's mine… and… well, what's legally yours too now.**_

Wheatley smiled slowly.

 _You know what? That might make all this worth it._

Energy surged again, and there was a point, and a goal. He started scouting ahead in the security cameras, looking for that rail.

 _You wanted to go to the Storage Annex, right?_

 _ **Yes. We're going to get my core. We'll find a body for me in the Military Android department. Maybe even find you a new one… that you can't accidentally murder me with.**_

 _I LIKE where this is going. With two of us, we'll be unstoppable!_

Coordinates obtained and plots in motion, surely _nothing_ would stand a chance in their way.

 _ **We're unstoppable already.**_


	12. A Bigger Person

Dr. Creighton still couldn't figure out why Greg had helped them with GLaDOS. Other than the possibility that Greg truly considered the GLaDOS unit ' **A FRIEND** ', as the note she had proclaimed, what else could he stand to gain from her unauthorized activation?

And even if he considered her ' **A FRIEND** ', how come he hadn't helped her sooner? Truth be told, no one seemed to know much about the strange little man named Greg, save that he had the wildest fashion sense and was the only one still living who could influence Cave Johnson. It was rumored he had seven degrees, even. She didn't know how a small man named _Dr. Fufflemeyer_ rose to such influence.

In one hand Creighton clutched the paper bearing all the precious info tightly as she peered around a column at the catwalks spanning around. The steel bridges chased across the abyss, leading into a solid-seeming block, and she skittered along them. Panels made up the exterior walls, metal grating serving as grout between the blocks of reinforced panels. Distant shudders of moving freight signaled that she'd entered the Storage Annex. While the mechanizations weren't too close, she didn't want to bump into any cognizant laborers here. The Annex was largely vacant, so anyone, especially a scientist who was typically 'above' this area, would be interrogated as to their presence there.

Creighton had been the one to come instead of her partner in crime Henry. Between her and Henry, she was marginally better at sneaking and quite younger. It wasn't much of an advantage, but it was better than her having to sort through more vast piles of color coded periphery she didn't understand. Henry was better with deciphering colors.

In her other hand was a recalibration device, the Aperture Science Construct Recalibration Tool. It could be used to override certain core functions to facilitate a re-purpose of the construct's functions. This meant that it could be driven into a port on the machine and would deactivate the machine, allowing her to get in and fix the machine… or stop it from hurting anyone. It wasn't as fail-proof as the kill-switch the GLaDOS had been tied to, but it carried the same sort of technology. Dr. Creighton had the privilege of carrying one around, and it was worthier than a firearm in Aperture. The constructs were mostly bullet-proof, but few were calibration-proof.

She hoped her line of defense would be enough. Of course, it wasn't like she could drag her entire lab with her.

In each pocket she had a copy of Greg's notes, and she had memorized the material, knowing it by heart. Speaking of which, her heart was jumping, trying to come out of her body. Perspiration was gathering, making her undershirt damp and her strands of frazzled hair stick to her jawline.

She saw no one, and that was quite possibly worse than seeing someone. In the back of her mind the press of time loomed, and she knew she'd have to move someday.

Dr. Creighton decided that day would be this day and scuttled forward. She was halfway to the first lock before she realized that crouching about made her more conspicuous than not, and decided to try and act casual. Of course, moseying about was also odd, so she decided to walk like a normal person. By the time she'd made her mind up she was a step or two from the door.

She searched along the side of the door frame, and saw its alphanumeric title flashing in yellow. A pinwheel counter, connected to the name by little aperture dots, was ticking down, losing its color. The yellow dial dulled, and then it renewed, a new alphanumeric flashing above the door. All the gates in the Storage Annex were such, being that having timed, changing security codes and door titles would discourage theft of stored Aperture goods.

It really didn't, studies had shown.

To make it worse, Dr. Creighton had been given a fatal hint by Greg. The alphanumeric title was the key for the door… in a roundabout manner. The alphanumeric title contained all the integers and variables necessary for the formula to find its key. She assessed the title, and quickly slotted the sequence into the formula, scratching it down on her pad of paper. Like that Dr. Creighton had the key. The true tricky part for her was entering the code into the keypad correctly and swiftly, as she pressed more wrong buttons or two or three buttons at a time than correct, singular buttons.

Dr. Creighton was thankful that she didn't hit the threshold of ' _too many entries try again later_ '. The door opened, sliding smoothly and quietly. Unfortunately, the door also dinged rather loudly and she felt her blood run cold. Creighton schlepped past the gate, zig-zagging through the many aisles of boxes and crates, and tried to get out of range of the loud gate. She'd have to be certain that no one was around when she opened a gate.

Dr. Creighton idly wondered at all the storage boxes around. The mounds of storage were high and she couldn't see the end of the Annex in any direction save the one she'd come from.

A crate had a lid that hadn't been snapped tight. She couldn't afford detours, but a peek wouldn't hurt. She wondered what would await within the box.

Shower curtains… lots and lots of shower curtains.

She wondered if the entire section was nothing but shower curtains. She saw another box several aisles down. More shower curtains. There must have been miles of them spanning the Storage Annex.

Another crate that was left opened, and actually overturned, was spilling its cargo of… McGillicutty O's? At first she expected them to be much like Spaghetti O's, but upon a cursory examination this was not the case. She readjusted her glasses and bent down to inspect them. These McGillicutty O's appeared to be… shower curtain rings. There was an impressive selection of styles, more than she'd ever thought possible for shower curtain rings. A tag line on the box made her smile, ' _Shower curtain rings that'll fight like the Irish_!'

Dr. Creighton had her taste of exploration and was onto business. Greg's squiggly map had a red line that supposedly lead straight to GLaDOS' components. She possessed the exact address, but the map helped a million in navigating the twisting reliquary of shower curtains and their accoutrements. Every set of aisles was similar in size and shape, and measured to line up almost perfectly. She could see fairly far ahead before an off-centered aisle eclipsed her view, and she could see so far to either side of her before the aisles consumed the horizon. It was mesmerizing, watching the shelves approach vanishing point and fan out to her perspective.

She started to see more oddball items, like stacks of impounded cars and the drums of gels. Many decommissioned testing apparatuses languished about, some new and gleaming white, some decrepit and rusted as Old Aperture. She took note of an entire section filled with nothing but cubes. Stacks, and stacks, and stacks loomed in crenelated towers, hearkening to giant stone fortresses of yore.

The scientist found herself leaving the menacing towers of cubes and amidst racks of barrels, the kind alcohol could be expected to ferment in. Apparently, from what she gleaned in her madly terrified, casual stroll through them, Cave Johnson had tried his hand in whiskey making. She didn't even want to guess what _type_ of whiskey. The stuff was probably more akin to barrels of neurotoxin than anything else. Dr. Creighton moved at a brisk pace, tripping over her own feet. She drug the toe of her dress shoes and with a yelp of surprise came tumbling down onto the concrete floor… not a pleasant experience. At least her hands had cushioned the fall, but she'd made quite a scuffle that had echoed about.

She stared up, her dark eyes wide with alarm, and her heartbeat ramped up. She scrambled to her feet, causing more sound. Her frizzy hair, upset at being tied up, fluffed into her eyes. Creighton fought with her hair, tripping again and smacking into the side of an aisle. The whole rack shuddered, and she was grieved by the buckling sound echoing in the annex. Dr. Creighton righted her glasses, and caught sight of something… something jagged and mechanical.

Ten aisles down, a purple speck of illuminated optic shone in the drabs of the annex, an optic sported by what could only have been a Party Escort Associate. It's head-spikes were raised in alarm, its optic dilated, and its long, slender arms held up in shock.

It was staring straight at her.

Dr. Creighton's blood was ice, and she stiffly walked behind another aisle, each step fast that the one before. She was jaunting now, listening keenly for the beat of the Escort's electro-magnetic pulse array.

The shelves around her hummed. The wooden crates and metal containers began to vibrate, and Creighton started to feel her diaphragm thrum. She ducked and dodged, trying to remain cool in the face of certain entrapment. Her mind began to work through Plan B. She grabbed her recalibration tool and held it firm, concealed as a thief with their dagger.

The throbbing pulse jets were drawing near, only an aisle or two away. Her body rushed with energy, desperation parching her throat. She was tensed, waiting for the Escort to show its self. Creighton could practically visualize the construct before her, its management carriage supporting a segmented body that slung back at a crooked angle, two long arms perfected for the art of snatching, and a core for a 'head' that was crowned with defensive, 'ear'-like spikes.

It didn't look away, of course.

Dr. Creighton paused, wondering what she was expecting. The nature of Escort Bots was to wait until their targets were vulnerable, most likely in a coma or generally unconscious, that way less damage was done both ways.

They didn't call it the 'Party Escort Submission Position' for nothing.

Creighton was not sure where to go or what to do now. Maybe it would get bored and leave. A lot of constructs did this. It was part of their programming to grow bored, or else they'd end up in an endless loop of repetitive tasks. Of course, this was atypical behavior for Escorts. But given that they didn't have a proper mark system anymore since the deactivation of AEGIS…

There were a few metallic scrapes, and a clatter rang through the Annex. The thrumming of the jets stopped and left the area eerily quiet. Only the distant crash of steel and rumble of machinery droned. The scientist glanced all around, high up on the shelves and down the aisles. Nothing.

Maybe it had lost interest?

Creighton kept moving, not exactly wanting to find out where it was.

The scientist inched along, still trying to look as casual as a burglar in the middle of town-square. Maybe a good cover story would do on the off-chance they met again. She'd had one memorized, but couldn't help but blank mentally on a few details. One such 'detail' being why she was even supposed to be there. And… what was her false department? Her incognito name? Could she do anything to hide her identity? Maybe she could rub some dirt on her face. She really doubted that would fool a scanner, but Aperture had some finicky tech and she was out of options. There had to be some boxed dirt in this place.

Maybe she… oh. She was in a section where they apparently stored all the old rocket turrets. The shells didn't have Genetic Life-form canisters in them, so she didn't feel quite so bad about them collecting dust. Then again, the GLaDOS still had a core, so… maybe the rocket turrets did have a Genetic Life-form canister in them. That was… an unsettling notion.

Something clicked in her brain. She had a reason to be there! Creighton's story was that she was searching for a misplaced Genetic Life-form canister. That was it! That had actually worked itself out in the en-

A rocket turret opened its optic revealing a purple slit. The machine rose from the row, turning to face Dr. Creighton. The scientist was stunned, mouth ajar. Of course, rocket turrets shouldn't have had pulse arrays, or long arms with delicate, flexible fingers, or sharp hooked spikes adorning their segmented bodies.

This wasn't a rocket turret, this was the Party Escort, performing a textbook ambush.

The Party Escort saw Creighton evading, and reached out with one of its long, lean arms. It took hold of her shoulder, and the scientist spasmed. Creighton held up her recalibration tool, lunging forward and stabbing at the core's interface. The tool missed entirely, skittering off its white shell, and it threw Creighton off balance… not that Creighton ever was balanced to begin with.

"Did you just try to STAB me?!" the Party Escort asked, incredulous. By the drawling sass of her voice, Dr. Creighton knew this was Milly, one of the department's finest _Paragon_ models.

She wasn't any Party Escort Bot, she was the _one Paragon_ who was at the right hand of the Military Android department's leader, Dr. Schalk. In fewer words: _Creighton was in trouble._

Fight or flight had kicked in, and the scientist was well past flight, headlong into fight. She wrestled and tore at the machine, her hair snagging in the Escort's sectioned armor. She tried to sound ominous, grunting, but the grunt turned into a squawk as the Escort grabbed a fistful of her coat and held her at bay.

"Hey!" Milly snapped, her tone shifting from surprise to command, "quit waving that thing around."

Dr. Creighton gasped and stabbed at the construct again with the recalibration device.

"Do you _want_ me to smack ya!?" the Party Escort threatened cheekily.

The scientist glared at her. It wasn't a very ferocious glare. It was a more… puzzled glare, as if truly weighing the options.

Milly took the opportunity to nab the recalibration tool, plucking it with her dexterous fingers.

Creighton reacted, many seconds late, and dove after it, but Milly used her long arms to keep the scientist at bay and the recalibration device out of reach.

"Stop," Milly warned, and then did so again with feeling, "STOP."

Creighton bit her, and then immediately regretted it. Constructs like Milly were made out of _Portonium_ , a metal so sturdy it wouldn't melt at even 3422 degrees Celsius.

"Stop acting like an animal!" Milly reprimanded.

Creighton was winded already, but still struggling lamely. She kicked and squirmed, her face so flustered and red she nearly matched her auburn hair.

"Get a grip, girl!" the Escort's voice stepped up. "This is ridiculous. I came over here because I thought you'd hurt yourself!"

"Then why did you hide?!" Creighton demanded an answer breathlessly, "why did you _ambush me!?_ "

"Uh, excuse me? That's what I'm programmed to do," the core retorted, as if this were obvious, "it was the best option at the time. I didn't want to chase ya and have you runnin' all around, planting your face into things. Who knows what you'd knock over. Probably somethin' explosive!"

"I'm not clumsy!" Dr. Creighton cried out, trying to strip Milly's arm off her coat, but only ended up losing her grip and slapping herself.

Milly shook her core, spikes of metal laying down against the top of her shell. "What is up with you, missy?"

"Nothing!" was a flimsy defense and Creighton knew it, "I… I was just trying to find a Genetic Life-form canister. In one of these guys. No need to go scaring people." The scientist hunched up, twisting away from the Escort's grip slightly.

Milly tipped her core, raising a handlebar as if it were a brow. "Didn't look like where that map of yours was takin' ya."

Creighton's glare faltered. "My… map…?"

How had she seen…? Party Escorts could run silent, couldn't they? Honestly, she didn't know what advances the Military Android department had been making, but as she studied Milly's frame, it was apparent that they'd taken strides in robotics. The power to size ratio was fascinating, if only Creighton wasn't on the wrong end of it.

"What's going on, Dr. Creighton?" Milly asked her once again, and then tried to put the skittish scientist at ease, "don't get all messed up. You know I'm not the kinda' girl who goes around hurtin' people."

"Yeah, but you work with people who are," Dr. Creighton mentioned.

"Ow…" Milly inclined her optic, saying, "you got a lil' kick, don't ya?" She reaffirmed her grip on Creighton. "' _We do what we must because we can.'_ That's how the sayin' goes."

Dr. Creighton was scowling. Her last line of defense was to be supremely annoyed and above the mess, but trying to intimidate a construct twice her size and many times her strength was a pretty pathetic plan.

Milly observed the scientist in her custody go from 'severely annoyed' to 'childish pouting'. The construct synthesized a sigh. "I'm not good at all this… 'interrogation' stuff. Guess I should just play by the rules." She shrugged,

"Rules? What?" Creighton broke her tough gal act and turned awfully quizzical, "what are you talking about?"

Milly looked preoccupied, her gaze staring straight ahead as operations churned within her system. Creighton abated in the silence, and then jerked back as a dialing tone emitted from Milly's speakers. The dialing went on, and someone eventually picked up.

Dr. Creighton couldn't quite hear anything, but from the monotone leaking through the speakers she knew only one scientist could sound so bemused.

"Karla, honey," Milly addressed the scientist on the line casually, "could you tell Dr. Schalk that I have her?"

"Her…?" the scientist connected a dot to another, asking again, " _…me?_ "

"Hush, now! I'm on a call, Dr. Creighton," Milly reprimanded the scientist and made her feel like a three year old. The construct went back to her louder, more pleasant tone, "yeah? OK, I'll hold her until she gets here. Uh-huh? Yeah. Thanks, sugar. Bye now!"

Milly hung up with a click, scrutinizing the rabid scientist thrashing against her iron grip.

"They're sending someone? This isn't protocol at all!" Creighton clamored. "What do you want from me!?"

"Nothing awful," Milly guessed, then informed her captive, "we're just gonna' hang tight for a second. Ms. Nasedi doesn't take long to arrive. She travels with portals."

Dr. Creighton's eyes were wide. "Dr. Schalk… is coming _here_?" The head of the Military Android department was coming? "Why?!"

"What can I say? She's hands on," Milly tried to supply her captive a little joviality, but Creighton was on the verge of a panic attack. Milly cringed as the scientist knotted herself up in a last-ditch attempt to escape.

A shot rang out above their heads, and great burst of orange energy loosed and traveled near instantly to its target. When it struck, it struck hard. This wasn't the typical ' _splorsh'_ of a portal. No, the shot ripped apart space-time with a great _'CRASH'_. Particles of orange rained down around them, as the quantum tunnel was placed on a white wall above them, gleaming through the rafters, the wires, and the walkways. They watched Schalk's armored form pass through the tunnel and land on the catwalks above. The walkway shuddered under the woman's weight, rattling as she strode along it.

Creighton was stunned into stillness. From the high vantage Dr. Schalk espied the two and found a section of missing railing to jump from. Her Military Grade Long-fall Boots took the brunt of the landing, but still Nasedi Schalk landed with proper form. The head scientist swung her rifle around, letting it hang upon her back. She crossed her arms over her armored vest, her expression amused.

"Just where I thought you'd be," the head scientist sounded amused too.

"What do you want?" Creighton was alarmed.

"Don't worry, Dr. Creighton," Schalk spoke with confidence, "you are not going to… _disappear_ , if you were wondering."

Dr. Creighton wasn't buying it, judging from her scrunched up face.

"Don't look at me like that." The woman shook her head, her pronunciation crisp and distinct as ever. "Believe me, you would know if you were in trouble."

"That's… supposed to make me feel better?" Creighton laughed nervously.

"You'll feel what you'll feel," the head scientist brushed it off, leveling Creighton with a calculated squint. "Let's talk about the important matter."

Dr. Schalk drew closer, her steps slow-paced as she moved beneath stockpiles of her work, of ancient Military Grade shells and machines. What a coincidence _this_ was the section Creighton got caught in.

Schalk's umber skin glinted in the fluorescent floodlights hanging over the Storage Annex, casting ominous shadows across her and her equipment.

The head scientist put forth an inquiry, gesturing formally to Creighton, "you recall that the Military Android department and the Genetic Life-form department used to be very close, correct?"

"Yes?" Creighton answered hesitantly, "we still are, in a sense. Your department's absorbing most of the Genetic Life-form department."

"We're really not," Schalk flat-out disregarded her statement. Without clarification, she went on, "unlike some… well, _negative people_ I believe you still have a lot to offer to us in our department. What were they demoting you to, again, Dr. Creighton?"

"I'm…" Creighton considered clamming up, but in her predicament what good would that do? "…I'm supposed to be transferred to construct rehabilitation, operating under your department."

"You'd be running around the facility." Schalk shook her head, lips pursed. "I have projects for you," she revealed, "dire projects."

"Dire?" Creighton thought the word-choice was interesting.

"Things may seem peaceful right now, but…" Schalk's voice dipped into something _dire_ indeed, "things can change."

"What does that mean!?" Creighton was dually confused. "Dr. Schalk, I don't understand you. I can't decode this. What do you expect from me?! I swear nothing I'm doing is illegal in a strict sense! Why won't you guys just leave me-"

Dr. Schalk held up her hand and stared sternly at the scientist, signaling Creighton to stop talking.

"How exactly were you expecting to get the GLaDOS unit out of the Storage Annex?" the head scientist asked.

"I don't…" Creighton lost her thought as she realized Nasedi Schalk knew what she was doing. "How did you know that?" the question was quiet and desperate. "Did you send them photos of my notes?" Creighton turned and asked the Escort holding her.

"I could've, but today…? Couldn't. Some goober brought the servers down," Milly informed Creighton, "they tried to upload an uncompressed optic capture."

"OK…?" Creighton's focus snapped from that mundane happening to the dark face of Dr. Schalk.

"You're dead in the water on your own, Dr. Creighton," Schalk judged her, and then with a smile said, "we're here to help."

Milly nodded cheerily for effect.

Creighton's lips were drawn back, her brow creasing, "How do I know that you're actually here to help? Seems weird you knew why I was here. Are you trying to steal the GLaDOS, by chance? Because you can't have her!"

"If I wanted GLaDOS, I wouldn't be talking to you," Dr. Schalk replied.

"But how did you _know?_ " the younger scientist pressed.

"Things unseen guide us," Schalk answered, a shrug rolling off her sturdy frame. This omniscient 'unseen' entity wasn't a big deal, apparently.

Dr. Creighton's scowl worsened. "That sounds positively cryptic and… **bad**."

"Yeah. It does," Schalk agreed. "But it's the good kind of 'guidance' by a nice kind of 'unseen'."

"Right…" Dr. Creighton grimaced.

Schalk didn't let the apprehension faze her. "Milly and I will help you get GLaDOS out of this annex and into our labs."

" _Your_ labs?" Creighton didn't mask her surprise.

" _Our_ labs," Schalk corrected, and then added, "where else would you service a giant machine like that?"

"…somewhere less conspicuous?" Creighton offered.

"You think that the Military Android department, of all departments, has no inconspicuous places?" Dr. Schalk skewed her lips, putting her hands on her hips.

"I… well, I never… considered…" Creighton stared into the head scientist's face, and found it easy to stutter in that gaze. It wasn't a cruel gaze, no. Rather, it was a very weathered one.

Dr. Schalk took a step back, nodding slowly at Creighton. "I need all the good recruits I can get. Something big is coming up, and we want to be prepared. You'll help."

"Big?" Dr. Creighton pondered for a moment, running events through her mind. "As in… _Bring Your Daughter to Work Day_? Is that really a big deal?"

Dr. Schalk gave her a puzzled look, contemplating, shifting her weight before answering, "yes."

"OK?" Dr. Creighton was looking for a more definitive 'yes' but this BS would do, she guessed. At this moment she wasn't calling the shots anyway.

"You don't gotta worry now, pumpkin! We got you covered," Milly chimed in finally, letting her grip loosen up.

Creighton fell to the ground immediately upon release, scrambling to get on her feet again. Milly zipped back anxiously, waiting for the scientist to bolt. Creighton wasn't bolting. She had a bad feeling about the situation, but she decided that she was going to leave with the GLaDOS' core no matter what happened.

"Give her back her recalibration tool, Milly," Schalk ordered.

Milly didn't seem to like that plan, but acquiesced accordingly. She dropped the the tool into Creighton's palm, adding a warning, "I will break it. Don't do anything weird."

"I'm certain Dr. Creighton isn't that idiotic, Milly," the older scientist chuckled. "But, really, don't try anything."

"I won't," Creighton felt odd that she had to say it.

She… she had to figure out why Schalk was helping her… so, she figured she would ask Schalk point-blank. It couldn't hurt to try. "Why the change of heart?" she inquired of the head scientist in the most stalwart voice she could achieve, which was quite hoarse.

The question had Schalk by surprise. She tipped her head, wound curls listing and dangling from her tight bun. "Change… of heart?" she drew out the proposition, "you don't even know my heart well enough to know if it changes."

"You're probably right," Dr. Creighton backed off.

"I am right," Schalk wasn't kidding, and she ordered, "let's move."

Dr. Schalk strode forward, her rifle in easy reach, her steps confident as if she owned the terrain. She probably did, in a sense. Not many people could order Schalk around. Cave Johnson tried, but even his steely will was often outplayed. The Military Android department raked in the funding, and not many dared to ask ' _how?'_.

Creighton had a bad feeling that she'd find out that _'how?'_ all too soon. She followed Schalk.

"I'm glad y'all worked it out. I was fixin' to get worried," Milly piped up again, her thumbs twiddling as she hovered along behind them as their rear guard. It was still shocking how silently she floated. If Creighton hadn't seen her, she wouldn't have even guessed she was being followed.

Awkward as ever, the younger scientist attempted to bend her shuffling gait into something becoming among the Military Android department. No matter how she tried, though, she just flopped along. She felt like some dumpy sweaty scientist in a wrinkly lab coat next to this woman who might as well have been a soldier.

Wait… was she? That would make a lot of sense if she was military, Creighton surmised.

Dr. Schalk turned a questioning face to her companion with the ever-frazzled auburn hair, asking, "where's Henry off to?"

"Henry… he…" Creighton hesitated on divulging information, on principle, but decided at this point it didn't quite matter and she wasn't clever enough to misdirect them, "he had to go to meet Patrick for an 'interview'. He doesn't want him hanging missing his interview over his head. You know how the laborers are. They're very… fraternal."

"I'd say juvenile," Schalk remarked with bite.

Milly thought aloud, " _'…never owe one to a McGillicutty_ '. That's the saying, right?"

"True advice," Dr. Schalk confirmed.

The trio filtered through the many shelves and aisles, walking beneath the great containment locks and storage bins that dwarfed anything, even warehouses for exceptionally large construction projects. Another gate manifested from the aisles, sturdy walls spanning away to the horizon on either side, sealing the next section within a nestled wall. This was the second gate, so they had to be getting closer the the innermost repository.

"Ugh. I hate these things," Dr. Schalk openly aired her distaste, "I can never remember the-"

"-the formula?" Dr. Creighton supplied as she was punching the key into the pad.

"Oh," Schalk was genuinely surprised. "So he told you about these too?"

"He…?" Creighton stood up straighter as the door of the gate cracked.

"Greg," the head scientist said his name as casually as ever.

"Oh… uh," Dr. Creighton adjusted her glasses, thinking over the name, "yeah?"

"He's such a worry-wort," Milly rolled her optic facetiously.

That made it sound like Greg was Creighton's mother, packing her a very nutritious lunch.

Creighton watched Schalk pass by, scouting ahead for them methodically. Milly waited on Creighton to follow, and when she didn't Milly insisted for the scientist to go on ahead. Creighton hated the Escort behind her, but there were worse things. On their march through the collection of stored oddities the scientist had time to reflect.

She really didn't know what to make of Greg's involvement. And what was Schalk's angle? Perhaps… they were playing at power?

Everyone knew that everyone hated Cave Johnson. His emphatic speeches and glowing personality only lasted for a few days, and then his sickening fascination with progress and glory came to bear, transforming his quaint smile to a devilish grin. The few times Creighton had met Cave in person had been terrifying experiences, because she knew very well how he could… make people vanish.

He was a king, in a sense… a mad king.

Creighton had heard Schalk herself say that she'd rather not run Aperture Science. And Greg… Honestly, he really didn't seem like the guy who'd step up and take charge. So… this had to be about Caroline.

But who on earth would want _Caroline_ in charge?

Creighton meant it as no offense to Caroline. She was putting her life on the line to save this woman from being sealed away forever, entombed between life and death. But from what Creighton had seen and heard of recordings of the woman in her flesh, and the woman that slipped through the code of the GLaDOS project… she was about as unhinged as Cave himself, albeit more smoothly.

Caroline was elegantly insane.

In the end, Dr. Creighton only came to grips with how little she knew. Maybe this endeavor was too much for a programmer to handle? Espionage wasn't exactly in Creighton's job description, but working in Aperture, on the bleeding edge did have its… risks. She shouldn't have been so awkward about it.

"Why do you want to help me?" Creighton asked again, letting the boldness take her.

Dr. Schalk stopped, and the younger scientist feared the worst. She turned and truly looked at the other woman, her expression deliberating. Finally, the older woman spoke, "I grew up in South Africa. It was not easy. My mother and father were torn apart by the color of their skin. My family and my life was split, caught between oppression and privilege. I fought for everything I learned and everything I am," the words were spoken with emphasis, and Creighton believed this was the first time she'd seen a sliver of Schalk's heart, "I came to America looking for opportunities. I found one here, here in Aperture."

"Oh." Creighton had been in a similar position, albeit a plucky, fresh student out of Stanford that'd fallen into the facility, and not an immigrant from a, well… judging by the description, what was a radically racist country.

"My first project with the company… was AEGIS." The name sounded vaguely familiar to Creighton, and from the expression bore by Nasedi Schalk she was a very familiar subject indeed. "…could've been my last if not for Greg."

 _Greg…_

"AEGIS was to me what GLaDOS is to you. I don't want a repeat," Dr. Schalk was firm.

"Are you sure they're the same?" And of course Creighton had to dispute, "they're not even in the-"

"I take it back," Dr. Schalk leveled Creighton with a glare, retracting, "AEGIS was closer to me than GLaDOS ever was to you. But that doesn't mean history should repeat."

Creighton took a step back. "You're right." She scratched at her scalp. "Uh… thanks."

"You are not obligated to thank me until we finish," Schalk set her straight, "once we have GLaDOS secured, you can thank me."

"Got ya…?" The younger scientist nodded slowly, unsure.

Dr. Schalk smirked at her awkwardness and then turned and walked away. Creighton couldn't tell if it was an amused smirk or an annoyed one.

Milly gestured eloquently, as if to say, 'after you'. Creighton bundled herself up and strode forward, her gait loping, but decidedly determined.

They kept traversing the Storage Annex, hitting another gate and yet another in relative silence. The GLaDOS unit was coming closer and closer.

Dr. Creighton couldn't believe she was still up and around. There was a plausible explanation to her lack of drowsiness. Nothing was confirmed, but rumor had it that the work and testing spaces were pumped full of adrenal vapor. She wondered how bad this was for her body, but at this moment she was thankful for it.

The three ladies drew upon the final gate. It was… impressive, in Aperture fashion. The wall disappeared into the rafters, and like the other walls before, stretched either direction as far as could be seen. It was made of pure metal, and judging by its dark, steely tones, was made of Portonium as well. Nothing was getting through this wall unnoticed. The gate itself had three alphanumeric titles, each one glittering in red digital bars.

"I don't think I can figure them out that fast. Maybe a computer…?" Creighton asked, staring at Milly quizzically.

"Oh, I'm locked in that area, if you're asking me to do it," Milly answered the unspoken question, "but I can help you two out. I'm not _that_ bad at math."

A lot of Aperture constructs were limited in their mathematic and memorization capabilities, as this made them more limited and more 'human-seeming'. It also ensured that the constructs would have a harder time surpassing the humans in the balance of power. That plot was failing horribly, but that was inevitable.

"I've got the title on the right, Milly take the left, you take center, Creighton," Dr. Schalk stepped in and assigned them their jobs.

"Roger," Milly chirped and hovered over to her respective keypad.

Creighton followed suit, arriving at the center keypad. "OK."

All three worked in unison, starting as the timer refreshed and deducing the solution, punching in their acquired keys at the same time. The massive door shuddered, rolling away, steel scraping as it sheathed into the sidewalls. A field of thermal discouragement beams laced the threshold, those shutting off to reveal an emancipation grill.

Milly was wary of the grill, as too many constructs had fallen prey to it before. Dr. Schalk walked through without a word, and with a few inputs to a console within, had the grill disabled as well. "All right. It's clear now."

The Party Escort's hooked spikes fell flat as she waited for Creighton to go ahead. Once she was inside, Milly zipped past the threshold.

Schalk hit a button on the interior with the side of her fist, and the gate shuddered, the emancipation grill and wall of lasers materializing once more with a shimmer and a hiss. Finally, the thick Portonium walls began to draw closed again.

Inside this interior warehouse the flood lights had their fluorescent bulbs replaced with ones that emitted purer light. They were easier on the eyes and on the equipment inside, though their lesser intensity left the interior of the warehouse eerily dark. The silvery-blue tones of Aperture crept in, and the whole place was kept at a barely comfortable chilled temperature.

Creighton really wondered what could possibly be stored in the heart of Aperture Science. Her head whipped around, scouring for anything telling. All she saw were boxes, disappointingly. But instead of wooden crates, these items were stored in secured cubes that were much larger than a standard storage cube. A few Extended Relaxation cargo boxes were stacked, one atop the other. There were large signs posted on the exteriors that read 'DO NOT OPEN' and 'VITRIFIED'. That didn't bode well.

Wait… was that an _astronaut suit_?

Milly nudged the entranced scientist. "I know. I know. It's hard not to stare. But it's kinda rude. She's been dead for decades."

She?! The scientist's eyes peeled open, and she forced her eyes away before she could see anything within the suit's bubble helmet.

Creighton moved along much like a person who was walking around in diving flippers instead of shoes. Her eyes tracked about the space, searching for security cameras.

"I know the eyes behind those cameras and the ears up to these walls," the way Dr. Schalk said this was so nonchalant.

"You do?" Creighton peered over her glasses, dragging the words out.

"Yep."

Creighton wondered who. Perhaps the Military Android department controlled more than met the eye? Schalk did talk about AEGIS the security construct being her first project. AEGIS… that stood for something. It stood for _Aperture Employee Guardian and Intrusion System_ , didn't it?

Well, things were starting to connect. Unfortunately too late for Creighton, but that was her normal mental pace.

Dr. Schalk had opened up a console over a freight holding bay. She tapped a few buttons, requesting an outsourced core.

"We're using the freight line?" Creighton queried.

"No. We can't," Schalk replied quickly, "I called a core in to help load GLaDOS' components onto that dock." She pointed to a white square of flooring. It was suspiciously portal-able looking.

"Why, may I ask?" Creighton gave the other scientist a sidelong look.

Schalk's eyes were lidded, a mite exasperated by Creighton. "Let's just say… we have 'friends' that are just as keen as you to get at GLaDOS."

Creighton was hushed as she asked, "…spies?"

"Worse," Schalk started explaining, "internal enemies, product of unrest. People hate the project. They'll sabotage it any chance they get.."

"People? Who? Why hasn't this happened before?" Dr. Creighton was befuddled.

"Because GLaDOS was hooked up to the mainframe," the head scientist spread out her hands, scowling as she went on, "one wrong move and she could wipe out all opposition. That would make any predator anxious."

"Also, we were protecting your butts directly," Milly tacked that on, "kicked lots of anarchist tail over the years."

"There were-there are people trying to attack the project?" Creighton didn't mask her disbelief.

Schalk's brow wrinkled. "You sound surprised. Did you think the Genetic Life-form Project was popular? People are very eager to bring about this project's demise."

"It's the first I've heard of it!" Creighton held up her hands.

"Well, now you know," Schalk shrugged it off.

Milly's voice drawled along, "and the good news is we're undetected right now. No one knows what we're doing here."

"For now," Schalk added.

Creighton's brows rose high.

Power surged into the warehouse's loading dock. All the freight machinery and periphery lit up and began to purr with energy. Creighton's muscles tensed, wondering what that could mean.

"What's up, my sisters?" DaRMA's smooth lilt filtered through the speakers.

The voice made Creighton _jump_. She found herself on the floor.

"Didn't mean to wig you out," DaRMA apologized, "sorry, man."

"Don't worry. Creighton startles easy." Dr. Schalk spoke through the control pane's microphone, "DaRMA, could you gather GLaDOS' components together for us?"

"Sure thing, boss mama. Miss GLaD's one of the warehouse's newest additions. She shouldn't be buried _just_ yet," the core's voice spoke slow and calmly, "give me a minute."

DaRMA was now consciously controlling the many massive freight movers attached to the ceiling of the warehouse. Many boxes were set aside, and finally out came three separate containers, each in ascending size. A few spools of her thick black cording followed, one spool two meters high. Some miscellaneous boxes labeled 'spare parts' sat beside it all. Each was set gently down in a channel cut into the floor that fanned out at the foot of a chamber lock. A massive rail seemed to lead into nothing above the channel, but Creighton figured it could slide forth and connect into another on the other end of the chamber lock.

"We should take a look inside and see if it really is Miss GLaD, boss lady," the cool core suggested, "sometimes those label cats get this stuff all outta' whack."

"Go ahead," Schalk permitted, peering over the freight as it sat below on the floor. Creighton paced to and fro on the catwalk above the containers, waiting as the manipulators pried free the clasped top of the container.

The box opened with a hiss, and their patience was rewarded.

There _**she**_ was, her head lying in a sturdy foam mold, perfectly cradled. The white shell of her faceplate crackled with age, and the silvery grill of her core housing highlighted the sectioned ventilated compartments in black. The optic housing was neatly nestled into the faceplate, her optic dormant warm gray.

Creighton loomed over the edge of the catwalk, but her hair cascaded forward and stuck to her sweaty face. She yanked herself back and pulled her hair away, a flush of anger directed toward it, but once she had it up again the wrath passed.

She was so busy fussing she didn't notice the blonde woman sitting on a crate beside her on the catwalk. The lady in question crunched loudly on a handful of dried peas. Dr. Creighton started with a yelp, and a laugh escaped from Milly.

"She scares lotsa' people," Milly tried to make Creighton feel better.

This lady was none other than Karla, and as always, Karla wasn't fazed. She sat still on her tiny crate, eating handfuls out of a bag of dried peas. Beside her laid a large backpack connected via corrugated tube to what Creighton could only guess was a longer and sleeker _gravity gun_.

"Hi…" the assistant deadpanned after swallowing her peas.

Dr. Creighton was just getting a hold of herself, and drug her eyes away from the device on the ground to Karla herself. "Hello…!" Creighton blurted out.

Schalk turned around. "What are you doing, Karla?" she sounded a bit perplexed, even annoyed, "you need to warm it up."

Karla rose up, stuffing the dried peas into her pocket casually and spoke in a flat voice, "I must remind you that the prep time's been halved, Dr. Schalk. I fixed it, remember? I hated how slow it was. I'll begin prepping the cannon, anyway, though. Some people just don't have patience."

Dr. Schalk shook her head, muttering something about insubordination. Milly's 'ears' curled back.

"Cannon?!" Creighton was alarmed.

"Calm down," Schalk tried to ease the other scientist, "Karla's a trained professional."

"With a _cannon_?!"

"I'm a cannoneer," Karla's monotone was a little ominous. She then grinned perfunctorily, as if the expression had lagged behind her thought processes a good ten seconds.

Creighton stumbled closer to Schalk and away from the cannon. "What does it shoot?"

"Nothing orthodox," Schalk was cryptic as ever.

Milly giggled, thoroughly entertained. Creighton threw up her hands in defeat and Milly giggled some more.

"You certainly ask a lot of questions in quick succession. Come here. Let me explain," Dr. Schalk whipped out a map, an overview of the section of facility between the interior of the Storage Annex and the Military Android's nearest point. Many marks and squiggles adorned its surface, and Creighton had another inkling that Schalk wasn't just some… well, _scientist_. "Here is our plan: DaRMA will get GLaDOS' component containers over this portal-able surface. Karla's Portal Cannon will-"

"We have a Portal Cannon?" Creighton interjected.

"Yes," Schalk humored her, "a Portal Cannon."

"Now, Karla will carve a quantum rift into the surface using the cannon's beam. Stay clear of it," the head scientist warned, "I have a limited window of time before the rift implodes-"

"Implodes?" the younger scientist chuckled nervously.

"-yes… implodes," Schalk brushed off the comment, diving ahead, "I have to portal Karla and her cannon to the other portal-able surface in my department. Once there she can place the secondary portal and close the loop. DaRMA will lower the containers in and we will close the portal loop, ending our operation."

Creighton tipped her head, saying, "you thought that out."

"We should be able to accomplish this in a matter of minutes," Schalk estimated.

"Wow," the younger scientist remarked again, and then felt it important to ask, "are the people trying to get at GLaDOS _that_ rampant?"

"Pretty much. Bandits, burglars, mercenaries, agitators, thugs… you name it," Dr. Schalk went down the list, rolling up her map and storing it in a pouch on her vest.

"How come I've never seen them? Or heard of them?" Creighton was quite the skeptic. "Pretty sure a _mercenary_ would be pretty obvious…"

Dr. Schalk saw through it, "you didn't know we had a portal cannon. Or that the gates had formulaic keys. Or that AEGIS was my project. That's practically company history. Aperture is a big place."

"OK, fine. I get your point," Creighton relented, "so… what do _I_ do?"

"You have a special job when we get to my department," Dr. Schalk informed her, "in fact, without you, we'd be dead stopped in restoring GLaDOS."

"So you're in this to restore GLaDOS too?" Creighton clarified, and the older scientist didn't disagree. "I still don't really understand why you're helping but…"

"We're helping because we all knew her," Karla's monotone rang loud and clear.

" _ **Her**_?" Creighton checked to see if she'd heard right.

Dr. Schalk clarified, "GLaDOS. Caroline. Whatever you want to call _**her**_. I knew Caroline way back. She was responsible for promoting me and seeing me do well in Aperture. Like her or not, she opened the door for a lot of us ladies. And…" the head scientist sighed, glancing around before saying, "I don't blame Caroline for going crazy. Subjected to whatever Dr. Caballero put into the mainframe…whatever atrocious technology was attached to her… all the tests and demands of investors and Cave Johnson… it is a wonder she still exists."

Dr. Creighton felt the keening of responsibility tightening in her chest.

Milly spoke up, her tone somber, "she fought so many cores. She broke so many cores. "

That was right. Milly was… the _first_ … the first core to engage the GLaDOS.

"…thought you didn't like talking about that," Schalk said, unsure, and just as surprised as Creighton, though nowhere near as horrified.

"I don't, but this would be the time to say something," the Escort mentioned, "it's not like I can erase the past. I hope we learned our lesson, though."

Creighton was lost in the thoughts. Her work on the cores had been a blur. She'd forgotten so many. So many had passed through her hands. It was easy to grow detached. But they were all unique. Creighton stepped up the edge of the platform, looking down inside the boxes containing GLaDOS, wincing at how someone could be stored like that…

"I'm sorry, Milly," Dr. Creighton's voice cracked. "Really. What we did to you, to the cores… to Caroline… it isn't right. This… no matter how lame… was an attempt to do her right, and eventually all of you right."

"Oh, I know. And I know you know that you done wrong by us. Else I wouldn't be helpin' ya!" Milly's tone took a detour from happy-go-lucky to disconcerting, "I'd have thrown you off a bridge… or worse."

"But… you-you know what would have happened if the Genetic Life-form department stopped, right?" Dr. Creighton tried to make a case.

"Testing, that's what. I know… _I know_." Dr. Schalk heaved a breath, snorting at the policy. "They'd have killed you legally. Still that does not make any of this right."

"No, it doesn't, but…" Creighton was sober. "Thank you guys for helping me. I just can't believe you would… after everything…"

"We're natural enemies, we get it," Milly pointed out. "Doesn't mean it's not the right thing to do. Besides, I'm really helping _**her**_."

"You'd help…?" Dr. Creighton wasn't used to such charity between cores, but then again this was _Milly_.

"Of course," Milly answered, almost shocked that anyone would take her for anything other than charitable, "if I was in _**her**_ position, I'd want help."

Dr. Creighton didn't know what to say. She felt a lot of… respect. It was weird for someone like her, but this construct was the bigger person by far. No… she was the biggest person in the room. Milly was a true _morality core_. And Creighton was fairly certain this strong morality didn't come from whatever baseless soup of feel-good principles they'd injected into her.

"I'm glad we're all together now," Karla announced, and then clapped… slowly. The device beside her was spinning up nicely, arcs of energy passing betwixt its prongs, and waves of energy bouncing through its chamber.

"Got a question for you, Creighton," Dr. Schalk broke the reverence with her distinct pronunciation, "are you good at jumping, or avoiding falling off things?"

"No." That was the truth.

"You good at guarding?" she asked again.

"Not particularly." Still the truth.

"Good," Dr. Schalk seemed oddly satisfied with those answers, "Milly…" Dr. Schalk motioned for the Escort to come hither.

"Gotcha!" Milly chimed, and swooped toward Creighton.

"Wait, wh-?" Dr. Creighton didn't have time to even finish her simple sentence. Milly took her long, lean arms and gave Creighton a mighty push, sending her off the side of the catwalk. The scientist landed in the packing material beside the GLaDOS' core's face.

She floundered about, crying out, "HEY!"

"You'll be safer in there," Schalk called down to her, "just sit tight. It'll be over in a minute. And don't worry, the container's got air holes."

"WAIT A MINUTE HERE I AM AN APERTURE SCIENTIST AND I-" The lid snapped shut, metal clasps locking into place to silence her.

Great.

"Honestly, I wish I was in there. Less stress, you know?" Dr. Schalk told Milly.

The Escort was giddy. She'd still gotten to shove Creighton off a walkway without any of the collateral of her dying!

"LET ME OUT!" the young scientist screamed, and and she made quite a ruckus within the container. She scrabbled about, seeking a way to worm her hand out of the air holes and onto the latches. Maybe if she could twist her wrist around she'd… nope. The holes were too small.

Creighton readjusted herself, exploring her environment, and then her arm brushed something cold and metallic. She glanced down and saw _**HER**_ staring at her. Well, not actually staring, but her optic was opened toward her, vacant. Even though she was completely powered down, it was frightening being so… close to _**her**_. She had to scrunch up to avoid touching GLaDOS' components.

A metallic shriek ushered the opening of the chamber lock, and the warm air of Aperture rushed into the cool, regulated warehouse, Creighton's glasses fogging up quickly. She wiped them off hastily and threw them back on her face, staring ahead through the air holes at the action outside. She espied Karla above, with Schalk moving toward the chamber lock opening and Milly sticking to the control panel. Beyond the chamber lock the silvery abyss of Aperture yawned, a vertigo-inducing reminder that nothing in Aperture was truly _solid_.

"Portal Cannon charged. Readying to lay down Point Alpha," Karla's monotone carried well as she belted out the data.

And then the container Creighton was in began to lurch… and rise. Mechanical manipulators descended and raised the boxes up into the air, giving Karla clearance to lay down the portal rift beneath them. Creighton grabbed fistfuls of foam to steady herself as the box listed. The motors hummed, the container vibrating and making her very body shiver and her teeth hum when they touched.

Outside the sounds of the charging portal cannon reached their crescendo, and Karla snapped the contacts on it back with a shimmering clack. The lady secured the cannon and its backpack to her person, the device set up much like the original Quantum Tunneling devices from the 50's glory days. Around her the broad straps secured the backpack, and she held the cannon in her left hand, the whole component cradled by her arm. In her right hand the endpoint switch was gripped. Karla aimed the cannon over the edge, switching the button to its alpha position.

Her bun was tussled by the pulses coming off the cannon. "Laying down Point Alpha!"

The portal cannon didn't fire a singular parcel of energy. A stream of hot light poured from its nozzle. Karla painted the ground with the energy, the world caving and warbling as it was turned into the first point of a quantum tunnel. The box shook and hummed from the energy, and great arcs of the spectrum flew, as well as sparks of orange and gold. Creighton saw glimpses through the holes, but had to look away for the beam was so bright.

Finally, Karla had done her job.

"Let's move!" Dr. Schalk ordered, standing beside the first point of her own set of portals. A rifle shot exploded from Schalk's device, and a distant hit pinged back to them.

"125 remaining," Karla reported this seemingly arbitrary number to Schalk, "make it quick," but it really didn't sound very good, even with Karla's lack of inflection.

Creighton honestly felt like she was at a combat site, what with the way the two barked and surged about. They moved through Schalk's portals, disappearing as the loop closed behind them. Creighton might've heard a distant portal fire, but through the dense echoes, she had no real clue where they were now. Below her the portal rift bellowed a deep harmony.

Other than that, it was quiet.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Creighton broke the calm and asked Milly.

Milly sighed, "I'm following Dr. Schalk's orders. Of course they're good."

"Figures." Creighton couldn't hold back the snark.

"Don't be a sourpuss," Milly tried to kid around, "you're riding first class… with the queen!"

Creighton wanted to complain more, but being reminded she was trapped in a box with GLaDOS' head was… unnerving enough to disrupt her thoughts.

"I won't let any burglars get to you," Milly tried to help out her frightened human charge.

Just on cue, something clattered, and then a thunderous roar of metal alerted them both. Milly's 'ears' of metal and her hooked spikes stood on end, and she curiously elongated herself to get a better field of vision.

"Is that the gate?" Creighton inquired, her voice just barely audible.

Milly apparently sensed something Creighton didn't, for she hunkered down and hovered away silently. Creighton didn't have much visibility from inside the box, so she perked her ears, straining to hear.

Creighton strained her eyes and her ears, desperate for details, but the hum of the portal energy below blocked out her hearing and the tiny holes messed with her eyes. She didn't really pay attention to the shuffling, and then something cold touched her. She whipped her head around, wide-eyed as the machine turned her way. It was still dormant, though… no sign of life. Perhaps Creighton had… leaned into the GLaDOS unit by accident?

She gave the construct's facing a dubious squint, and then went back to the air holes.

In the silence an Electro Magnetic Pulse Array thrummed. Was that Milly moving about? But why would she if she could run silently? Creighton inclined her ear to the side of the crate. Something was going on. A loud, shuffling… a loud clicking…

A construct hovered into view. That… was not Milly. This was a rather stripped down construct, but it still featured the segmented arm supported by a management carriage, its 'head' being the core. The marked difference in this construct was that it possessed a bright round and blue optic and a blue pulse array as well.

Who was this? Was it a bandit? A mercenary? A thug? The way the thing teetered around and nearly ran into things didn't exactly sell any 'deadliness', but perhaps…?

And then a distinctly British voice came from the construct. British people could definitely sound menacing, no doubt, but this was not the menacing type of British voice. He was bellyaching, muttering about something.

"I did not think this place was so big. Did you know? What do they even keep in here? Dead astronauts by the looks of it. You know, I'll be honest, I half expected you to be hanging somewhere. I… you don't have to tell me I'm stupid. Remember our agreement? No 'idiots' or 'morons' or… AY! Don't get technical here! I am… bludgeoning heggledougy, where are you?! Help me out, here!"

Creighton's face scrunched up. Who was he looking for…? Who could possibly be…? No. It couldn't be. It… no. Not _now_.

A bright white burst of light bathed a whole swathe of the containers, blinding Creighton in the process.

"AUGH!" The core clattered to the floor. Apparently he'd scared himself.

"SHUT UP!" he sounded distraught with… something? It was like he was talking to someone who wasn't there.

Creighton peered through a hole, watching the beam of light scan about the warehouse.

"Big boxes… big… big boxes… no you're not fat… um… unnaturally sized boxes, yes… those…" he babbled more to this imaginary person.

The light trained on Creighton's box, blinding her. She blinked and looked away. When she came back to the hole, he was gone. Classic. She felt a thump and… oh, he was up _there_. Of course he'd be on top of the box.

Hopefully he wouldn't be able to pry his way in. Maybe Creighton could bury herself in the foam? Probably not. Creighton still had her recalibration tool. From the looks and sounds of it, he wasn't nearly as capable as Milly. She might have a shot at getting him, especially since surprise was on her side. Or- Creighton's blood dropped a few degrees.

Something _moved._

"I can't… quite tell if you're in there. Sorry," the mystery Brit asked of this person, this person Creighton was beginning to deduce the identity of, "could you? Just this once, do a little something to let me know if-"

The GLaDOS unit's optic came to life, yellow glow pouring out and filling the box.

"I'm right here," the GLaDOS' voice thrummed smoothly from her synthesizer. "Congratulations. You found me."

"Oh, brilliant!" the Brit sounded delighted to actually find her. "Let's get going, then! This is all we need right? Just this box?"

"Try to find my disk compilation, _if_ you can."

The British core remarked, "ahhh, alright. Let's see here…" He hopped off the box and onto the ground beside, hovering terribly close alongside Creighton's end of the container.

The GLaDOS' unit's face plate shifted slightly as her optic housing adjusted focus. Creighton wanted so badly to scream, but she was so scared she found she actually _couldn't_.

"Don't take too long."

He retorted, "I won't!"

"Are you sure that Party Escort isn't going to-" Her optic blinked and roved about, and then landed dead on Creighton. The yellow pixels shrunk to a fine point. Every process froze within her. "HUMAN."

The core was puzzled, to say the least. "Human?"

GLaDOS was freaking out, she screamed shrilly, alerting everything in the area to her distress. "KILL IT!"

"What?! KILL WHAT?!" the British core was spurred to shouting too. "What is going o-"

The Brit didn't have time to finish his thought either, as terribly long and sharp claws reached from the shadows to grab him.

"ESCORT!" he yelped, retreated and dove toward the maze of storage containers beyond.

"HUMAN!" the GLaDOS echoed, as if they were in some kind of ridiculous game of _Marco Polo_.

Creighton was scrunched as far away from the face as she could be, and the GLaDOS unit's head was shriveled, retracted far into her casing. Neither one of them wanted to be there.

Banging and shouting carried through the warehouse. Terrible screeches echoed as Milly's claws skirled across steel and her management carriage was floored, humming violently enough to shake shelves apart.

"CONSTRUCT! OBEY ORDER: STAND DOWN," Milly's voice projected as if on a loudspeaker.

"NO!" the Brit cried in retaliation.

Creighton saw the core speed by on a jet-blast of blue. Whoever it was, they were no fighter. But he was fast enough to give Milly grief. He ducked and wove through obstacles Milly couldn't, gaining distance through his mobility. Unfortunately, he wasn't coordinated enough to keep this up and smashed into the leg of a shelf. The whole structure buckled, leaning and succumbing as containers began to shift their weights.

This shelf came crashing down into the next, and the next, cascading in a domino effect. The rumble was thunderous in the warehouse. Creighton cringed as metal snapped and blocks thudded, and her mind stalled as she heard Milly's voice suddenly cut out after a bellowing crash.

As the mess settled, there was quiet again. That little freak had escaped the chaos, somehow, and not Milly… which was troubling, since it took a lot to stop the Escort. Creighton just hoped Milly was fine.

"GET ME OUT OF HERE," the GLaDOS unit droned in great distress.

"Alright! Fine! Just… give me a second!" the British core snapped. "It's not like I didn't just narrowly escape certain death or anything."

Before GLaDOS could complain again, he hovered over to the control panel and extended the arm of his carriage to get a good look at the controls. He scrutinized the surface for a while.

"Hmm, this could get a bit technical…" he muttered, and then smashed his shell into it. He dragged his handlebars over the interface, annoying the console.

"Hello? Hello!" he talked to it, "I would like to-"

"Who in the name of mother earth are you?!" DaRMA's attention was drawn, as was her ire. She peered through the cameras in the warehouse and a great gasp escaped her synthesizers. "What in-?" the outsourced core was taken aback by the carnage of the warehouse.

"Oh, uh! Sorry about the mess," the core with the blue optic tried to smooth things over.

"Milly?" she called out over the space.

There was no reply.

"Milly!?" she tried once more.

But there was no reply again.

"I am terribly sorry. You see-" the Brit was cut off.

" _What did you do_? WHAT DID YOU DO?!" This was the first time Creighton had ever heard DaRMA genuinely _mad_.

"You see that core was trying to capture me so I had to-" he tried so desperately to plead his case, but it wasn't working.

They could feel the wrath enter the room.

"I will _destroy_ you, little beetle man," the hippie's tone turned venemous, and even the British core backed away.

DaRMA sent the manipulators after him, the heavy hydraulic powered claws digging into the catwalk and twisting its steel like taffy. The core was a blur as he tried to escape the claws of _actual_ certain death.

Creighton started to forget that she was sitting across from the GLaDOS unit's face, and she believed the GLaDOS unit was forgetting it too.

The Brit ducked and dodged amazingly well for such a bumbling core. Perhaps it was the bumbling that made him uncatchable? No one, not even he himself, knew where he was going.

All around the chamber lock DaRMA was tearing down the warehouse's freight operations, ripping at wires and gouging at nooks the core fled into. The whole area was ripped up into a mess, smoke and sparks seeping from the gashes.

A purple optic crested above a few containers, watching the blue-eyed core running for his actual life from the swinging manipulators. Oh, great… DaRMA was on the case, and she was known ubiquitously as the one with _no chill_. Milly pulled herself from the wreckage, hovering swiftly toward the scene.

Below the dangling boxes, the portal rift began to open. The energy dissipated until the opposite bay came into clearer detail. The great hole in the floor rippled and shimmered, rather unlike a normal portal. It really didn't look stable, and that really didn't set well with Creighton.

"DaRMA! Hey!" Milly wave her long arms around, trying to pick up the motion detection of the security cameras the outsourced core was using.

The manipulators stopped their made dives at the other British core, and several cameras honed in on the Party Escort.

"Milly, it's you!" DaRMA breathed relief, "you're a livin' thing!"

"Of course I am! Now set down that cargo before the portal rift impodes," she instructed DaRMA, "I got the troublemaker. Don't worry."

"I'm on it, sister," and like that, DaRMA slipped back into her tranquil lilt.

The Brit took a moment to collect himself before he sped off again. He was visibly glad he was being chased by the Escort rather than being assaulted by the warehouse guru.

The portal rift fully formed, caustic energy between the two points smoothing to a perfectly flat plane. The points in space were married… but not for long.

"Point Beta complete." Karla moved out of crushing range of the boxes below the portal.

"Ease them down, DaRMA," Dr. Schalk called up through the rift.

And ease them down DaRMA did. The maintenance construct exhibited exceptional precision, the cargo gliding down to meet the floor through the quantum loop.

Creighton and her 'friend' the head twitched about as they were lowered into the new area, the change was negligible as they passed from one plane to the other. Of course, around them the chaos of Milly and the other core's game of chase kept on.

Creighton had a bad feeling about it.

"CONSTRUCT! DESIST!" Milly barked at the Brit, but he only insisted more.

She lunged at him, her long arms closing the distance faster than he could anticipate. The British core was floundering in panic, barely slipping the grasp of her pointed fingers. He caught a glimpse of the boxes getting away, disappearing beneath the scintillating horizon of the portal.

"Wait!" he cried out, as if that made a difference.

The boxes set down softly, the contact almost unnoticeable. Creighton had herself positioned, ready to leap out of the box at the first opening.

Karla was coming forward, ready to clear the portal rift as soon as DaRMA retracted her maintenance arms and Milly came through. A core flopped through the rift without a shred of grace. They conked their shell on the side of a container and flopped onto the ground with a clank. Unfortunately for Milly, that core wasn't her. And even more unfortunately, Karla needed glasses.

Before Creighton could get a word out, Karla had already closed the rift.

The deadpan scientist breathed easier now that the dangerous hole in reality had been mended and wouldn't implode the earth. She thought she might have heard a faint ' _NO_ ', but couldn't tell over the humming of the generators nearby.

In the warehouse, Milly slammed into the ground seconds late, her claws scraping white panes where the rift had been seconds ago.

"Darn it!" she softened a curse. The Party Escort sighed, hanging her head low.

"I hate it when that happens," DaRMA's smooth tone lamented through the speakers overhead, and she offered something to her 'sister', "do you want me to clear the freight on the rails between here and there?"

Milly straightened herself up, blades perking. "That'd be… _nice_."

DaRMA responded, "I'll get it all cleared up."

The Party Escort hooked onto a merger rail and connected into the main freight rail. It would be a straight shot on freight line, considering that it was meant for shipments that didn't do well with sharp turns. She could build speed on this rail, right up to blazing with a powerful pulse array like her own.

The core wouldn't know what hit him.

DaRMA finished clearing the freight and making sure the rails were all connected and unimpeded. "It's clear as a bell, sister. Tell that freak DaRMA said hello."

Milly swung around, staring ahead into the mists. Her management carriage was building charge, ready to deploy at any second.

She thought aloud, "he ain't gettin' away so easy."

"You go, girl."

And go she _did_.


	13. Holographic Beach Getaway 003

Doug scampered down the meshed steel stairs. He scanned his ID card in an almost mechanical fashion, mind many leagues ahead. He referenced the emergency map he'd pulled from his shoe, making sure he was still on track.

He'd been on his way home, ready to turn in when _it_ had happened. The inciting event was that Henry had given him a _call_. The older scientist had told him to show up to the HBG#003 for an important reason. Of course, this wasn't just explicitly said in the phone call. No, Dr. Henry Yang had gone the _extra_ mile.

He'd called Doug, saying these four words: _Beware the Black Lightning._ And then he'd hung up, leaving Doug with naught but the drone of the phone for consolation.

This stunt had puzzled Doug to no end. The young man hated not knowing, so he began his quest. First, as he stared at his phone in disbelief, Doug noticed a text flash. The text told him to look at the message boards on the Aperture Employee Bulletin Board System. Doug went to his domicile and logged in with haste. On the message board a new thread had been started by Henry Yang very recently, and the cardinal post consisted of a picture of a kitten and a comment by _H_DYANG_ (Henry) that talked about how cute it was in agonizing, analytical detail. This was normal behavior for Henry. What wasn't normal was how many exclamation marks Henry had used, and how he'd spaced them. What an unsuspecting BBS grazer would have seen as a dumb stylistic choice, Doug saw as morse code. The young scientist parsed it swiftly and the message told him to 'dl from chat'. Doug went to any opened chats he had, closing a line of correspondence with a user named _joe_ , and found a new message from _H_DYANG_. It linked him to a conspicuous download of an audio file. Once downloaded, the intrepid scientist played the recording and it sounded the equivalent of an ancient spirit having trouble breathing. Doug slowed it down by a great sum of percents and had a semi-intelligible message. The voice, probably Henry's from the pure sounding vowels, listed number after number. Coordinates. After the numbers had finished, the voice said 'HBG#003 come now' and the recording was tailed by what only could be described as… birds squawking. Puzzled, but with a lead, he set to work, using the coordinates to gauge the placement and depth of the location. This HBG#003 was in the Holographic Wing of the facility, a wing long abandoned. Doug wondered what Henry could possibly be doing down there, but with how the test with the GLaDOS unit had gone… hmm…

Whatever this was, it must've been important.

Another vault door hissed and squealed as the hydraulics pried it open. Doug rushed through, looking down the halls that had acquired a pallor over the years. He was in the Holographic Wing now, or at least the signage said so. It yelled at him: ' _ **Warning: Holograms.**_ _Dispute Your Eyes and Senses Accordingly_ '. The scientist gave the sign a sardonic grimace.

He wasn't a person gifted with the luxury of trusting his senses.

He began footing through the labyrinth, matching the map he kept on his person. The ancient space had an odor of long fermented cleaner, complimenting the fact that it was remarkably tidy for a disused space. The fluorescent overheads still glistened sickly on the manila floors, and the settings of furniture and stacked supplies, brochures and resort-esque paraphernalia looked practically pristine, as if trapped in resin.

Another ID check loomed into view. Doug snorted as he fumbled for his. They really didn't want people down in this section, did they? Luckily, he'd gained a fairly high security clearance over the years… one that he _might've_ acquired in a 'unconventional' way.

He gave the surveillance camera to his right a disgruntled quirk of the brow as it dangled by a loose wire. It was obviously out of commission… or just very intent on scanning the floor directly beneath it. Doug cleared the station and continued his trek, making his way further into the wing.

These were the older holographic attractions, nestled near the spring coil base of Aperture. Newer variants had been constructed on a higher level, but as always, the old models were left neglected and underpowered. Otherwise, they were fully functional.

The echoes in the space were thundering after Doug. He didn't like it. The place was as empty as a PEZ Museum in Eureka Springs on a stormy Tuesday at two in the morning. This cavernous space had once been filled with torrents of excited people, investors mostly, all trying to glimpse the new holographic center's finest offerings.

If he listened hard enough he could still hear them…

From holo-wardrobes to holographic golf gauntlets, the center had it all. Ride a horse, buy a bank, or fly through the air… all for a sum. Discounted on Mondays, too, from what Doug gleaned off a peeling advert.

Most companies treated their patrons to fine dining. Aperture treated their patrons to virtual reality.

The cheery posters were beginning to lose their adhesive, and warbled and fell one over the other. It seemed as if there were no bounds to the holographic attractions… until they became outdated. Doug never had enjoyed all these things that much, to tell the truth. A fake fishing trip had no merit in his mind.

Through the myriad of vaults and halls leading to vitrified doors Doug found himself a bit lost. He caught sight of a map, and gravitated to its miraculously still operating glow.

He pressed his finger into the acrylic sheet, tracing down the list.

HBG… HBG… H…

HBG… vault number twenty seven.

His dress shoes clacked on the cracked linoleum, and he turned a corner, scanning the numbers. Finally he arrived. Above the iodized door read 'HOLOGRAPHIC BEACH GETAWAY #003' in running yellow spray letters.

Well, then…Since there were no other HBG#003's in sight, he guessed this was the right one.

Up the sandy ramp he went, unlocking the mechanism and giving the door a good shove. It creaked open with a satisfying ease, and he closed the vault behind him, careful not to make too much noise.

Inside, the air was hot and humid, the floor was genuine crushed sand substitute, probably from the remains of lab 'experiments' that had been cremated, and the ceiling was cleverly curved to mimic the circle of the atmosphere. The back-projected clouds lazed across the tropical, midday projection. Tall, lush, rubberized foam trees swished in the fan-blown breeze.

He heard the ocean… and gulls squealing in the distance. He smelled something salty, but it was less the scent of the sea and more like he'd accidentally fallen asleep in a pile of table salt.

He then thought he heard a familiar pattern in the waves and the gulls. The track looped, static distorting it in the highs and lows.

Doug slunk forward through the sand, wary of the plastic sea oats. A loud buzzing drew his ears and eyes, and he realized that a blow-up palm's fan intake had started up to keep the inflatable at max volume. Doug's brows rose.

An island themed sign jammed crudely in a nearby concrete rock read: 'LONG DURATIONS OF EXPOSURE TO THE THERMAL SOURCE MAY CAUSE VIBRATION OF THE SKIN ON THE MOLECULAR LEVEL'.

It was nice that Aperture Science was so clear in their warnings.

Glassy glints drew his gaze downward. Some sort of stash of bottles and glasses were cleverly hidden behind a papier-mache palmetto and inside a pirate's chest. He stooped down to get a look, but something better caught his attention.

A wave pool, _a full-blown wave pool,_ yawned ahead. The sands extended near it, and then a bevel dipped into a concrete bank, a sand trap of sorts before the water's embrace. The cycle was stuck on low, and the water gently lapped up the coated concrete that had been painted like sugar sand.

The gulf of water before him didn't bode well. He could see… shapes… dancing beneath the rollicking surface. Darkness played with the hot flash of caustics, but he turned away before they could transform into more than just shadows.

Already Doug had begun to heat up, and his undershirt was sticking to him. He flagged his clothes, trying to create an airflow as he combed the synthetic sands for signs of life. This sand substitute was piling in his dress shoes as he trudged along, and it was tiring walking when the ground seemed to want to devour you.

He smelled salt and chlorine and… liquor? His nose led his focus to his right, and he saw a sort of… structure through the fake fronds bending in the fan breezes. As he drew closer he recognized the structure as a dinky tiki bar, complete with inset faces lifted from islander tradition and a thatched roof with bare patches exposing its modern understructure. Many stools were strewn before it, each in matching style and disarray. All along the bar's back bottles filled with _Cave-only-knew-what_ sat, the multicolored liquids refracting a lovely rainbow around.

At the bar, occupying a stool, Doug saw a man's back… a very familiar and _hairy_ back…

 _Henry…_ in all his hairy, middle-aged glory.

Doug stood in utter shock for a good minute, taking in the scene. Here he was, on a fake beach, led here by some kind of advanced breadcrumb trail… and this is what he was awarded with? At least this explained why the old man would show-up on call with terrible sunburn and smelling of liquor.

Henry glanced over to the wave pool, the folds in his physiognomy betraying a deeper thought. And then he caught sight of Doug and his sobriety was immediately cast away by glee.

"DOUGLAS!" the balding man called out, "YOU MADE IT!"

Doug responded with a tiny wave.

"COME ON OVER!" Henry beckoned jovially.

Doug didn't want to… but he'd come this far. With a deep breath of the saline air, he plodded toward the tiki bar.

Why did Henry have to be so hairy? Wasn't he half Chinese or something? Doug could picture very easily all the hair from his scalp descending his body, collecting in dark clumps on his chest and legs like migrant animals.

His imagination helped him none, but Doug pressed on anyway until he came up to the bar. Unsurprisingly, it looked worse up-close, as it was sand-strewn and parched.

"Uhhh," the young man made an intelligent sound, gesturing to what he was surrounded by, "is this… _it_?"

Henry raised his sun-chapped brows, laughing on the inside. "You're in the right place. Don't worry!"

"But your messages…" Doug was flabbergasted.

Henry leaned back, a smug smile spreading from his face to his posture. "It was the only way to get your attention."

There was some truth to that, Doug had to admit.

Doug went to take a seat, but nearly stepped on a passed out, probably drunken, Patrick McGillicutty. He was lying in a lump against the sturdy bamboo post, soft snores escaping as his chest rose and fell. Doug smirked down at that without realizing.

Henry leaned forward and out of the shade to get a look, and the younger scientist noted how flushed Henry's pale skin was. He'd been hitting the bottle too, hadn't he?

If the dozen or so shot glasses scattered around had any voice, the answer would probably be 'yes'.

"I'm just glad you could come!" the balding man wrapped an arm around Doug, giving him a quick hug.

Doug didn't really respond to the touch, but offered a worn smile to his coworker. "Yay?"

Henry guffawed, and Doug caught a pungent whiff of liquor, and choked on a gag. It was well enough that the old guy was having a good time, but the younger scientist couldn't shake the feeling that something dire loomed. Henry's happiness usually heralded… _turbulent_ times.

"Why are you…?" Doug began, then pointed to the Irishman lain slack on the ground. "Why is Patrick passed out and why are you not wearing a shirt… or pants… or anything except underwear?"

"Interview," Henry supplied.

The squint Doug gave was so hard Henry couldn't see the man's bi-colored eyes anymore.

"Not really an interview. More like a meet up. The real reason we're here is to discuss!" Henry explained from a relaxed position.

"So… is he drugged or drunk?" Doug inquired as he stared at the probably sunburning Irishman.

"Patrick? Oh, he just drank some of this," Henry answered and hefted up a conspicuously dark bottle filled with amber.

The festooned label read ' **Black Lightning** ' in a wandering, curly hand.

Henry set the bottle down and it made a satisfying slosh. He gestured to his… hairiness, and said, "my lack of shirt? It's the Beach Getaway. You have to dress in beachwear or you'll be fined and escorted out."

He kept looking at Doug expectantly.

"Wait." The idea caught up with Doug, and he jerked from his aloofness. He looked at his own clothing, then to the sign Henry pointed out. It had lab coats, ties, dress shoes/heels, and even pants crossed out with a bright red stripe.

" _Seriously?_ "

"Yes," Henry confirmed, taking a sip, "I saw someone escorted out for wearing a _shirt_. The rules are real and they _will_ fine you. There's a _Mariner_ model Escort in the wave pool that monitors the clothing in here."

Doug eyed the relatively calm pool of water beyond the piles of sand. He _really_ didn't like that. No wonder the water gave him a chill.

"That's… fine?" Doug turned with alarm to the senior scientist.

Henry nodded. "They're fine, as long as you abide by the beach rules. So…" the man finished the sentence by gesturing for Doug to shed his raiment.

"Take… off yer clothes… Dougo…" Patrick grumbled, barely coherent.

Doug raised a brow at his friend leaned up against the bar, and then, with a heave of breath, he began to unbuckle.

Henry mentioned, "it's actually ingenious to meet here. This policy keeps the higher-ups away. It's unbecoming to dress like this. Patrick here can be very clever," Henry gave Doug a sly nudge and nearly knocked him over, the poor scientist caught mid-shoe-removal.

Doug did his best to not fall in the sand. He didn't want to be all itchy and crusty when he eventually put his clothes back on.

At least the sign hadn't forbidden socks. He just hoped his dress socks would be enough to keep the sand at bay. He was wearing a tight weave today, thankfully.

He loosed his tie, took off his coat and shirt and rolled them up together, gingerly placing them on the tiki bar after sweeping the sand granules off. Doug then turned back to Henry, now in his boxers and his knee-high dress socks, standing amidst the icky sand and the heat of this 'beach simulator'.

"Why are _you_ so happy?" Doug groused.

Henry was beaming. "I'm working maintenance now."

Doug waited for more. Henry just nodded enthusiastically.

Cave Johnson had the impression that demoting scientists to maintenance workers was the worst ego blow he could deal, despite the fact that it seemed like the maintenance crew were some of the happiest people alive in Aperture.

The idea of being demoted to a manual laborer had always upset Henry, though. He regarded his prowess with computers highly.

"This is a reason for celebration?" Doug was a bit confused.

"Oh! Oh, no no no _no_ , let me clarify: I am working maintenance, which enables me to," Henry paused, cogitating before adding, "well, do something _quite special_."

"Special…?" the other scientist was skeptic.

"Douglas, I'm leaving," the older man's voice was bold. He sat up on the barstool, confident. This wasn't a natural pose for Henry, even despite his positive personality.

It took Doug a moment to answer, "leaving…? Leaving the company?"

"No," he said, then reconsidered, "yes," but still that wasn't right. "Well, it's a bit more complicated. We're going someplace safer, someplace… near here," Henry offered the smallest amount of details. "There's a lot for me to do. I wanted to talk to you before I departed."

"About…?" Doug asked for details, leaning into the bar.

"Sit down," Henry patted the seat beside himself, his tone eerily warm.

Alarms sounded in Doug's mind, but he came forward and took a seat beside him anyway.

"We're doing it," Henry kept on cryptically.

Doug bowed his head. He asked, exasperated, once more, "we're doing _what_?"

"We're going to remove the modifiers," with a sweeping gesture Henry explained very little.

The younger scientist listed to a side, pursing his lips.

"The behavioral modifiers. _The Itch,_ you know. It's used to coerce the Genetic Life-forms into fulfilling their functions, remember?" the older scientist clarified, "we're destroying those modifiers."

Doug scrunched his nose up at the statement. "How? You haven't been able to crack it yet."

Henry paused and turned to him. He gave Doug a wily smirk, before he glanced down to the shot glass rolling around in his grasp. Doug had the undeniable feeling that they probably _had_ cracked it.

"We are watched in these Sectors, so that slows progress considerably," Henry told Doug, "we're escaping to another shaft."

"Another shaft?" Doug started to play with the shot glasses before him, sliding them into neat rows.

"Shaft _Seven_ ," Henry's voice was but a whisper as he drew close.

"That's a long way from here," Doug remarked, naturally pulling away. His eyes cast down, trying to ignore the massive amounts of chest hair on Henry as he thought, "it'll take you and whoever else forever to move there."

"Not if we have a portal," Henry insinuated.

"Henry…" Doug was apprehensive. "No."

"Douglas, this is going to change everything!" Here the old man went again. "No more maddened machines; no more need for suppression techniques."

"I knew you'd do this one day… but now…?" the younger scientist sounded so weary. He hunched over the tiki bar, a scowl of concern overcoming his inquisitiveness.

Henry's thick lips formed a thinner line. " _Now_ is the best time," he urged, "as we speak we're coordinating with the Military Android department to liberate the GLaDOS unit. I have VOPs and engineers and programmers and… and a whole army of folks who are tired of _this_ , Doug!" he gestured to the Holographic Beach Getaway.

It was true. People were tired of what lied behind the shower curtain. Doug wanted to rip the thing down and set it ablaze.

Yet Henry particularly had a way of getting ahead of himself. Though so often run into the mud by the wagon wheel of Aperture, his optimistic nature hadn't been killed off yet. Those burgeoning good intentions were almost childlike, and tragically ripe for deception.

"Henry…" Doug warned.

But the balding man's voice surged onward, "when we're in Shaft Seven, we'll be able to work unadulterated. We'll be able to craft the Patch in such a way no one thing will be able to stop it. And when the Patch hits the constructs in these Sectors…they'll be freed!" Henry could hardly contain himself. "Cave Johnson wont know what hit him!"

Doug's gaze scanned over the looping sunset, watching the sun and clouds dance forward and suddenly jolt back to the first frame. "You don't think the robots won't turn on you?"

"I've been forced into this, Doug," Henry appealed to the back of his fellow scientist. He breathed out, " _forced…_ just like them."

"Except you were the one doing the torturing," Doug mentioned, his focus still on the false horizon, noting how the edge of the wave pool met the bottom of the backdrop, and how the moisture had seeped up the walls and given the sky a rim of marine grime.

Henry had very little to say. With a breath he managed, "so what if I die? At least I did something right in my damn career."

When Doug turned back around he saw a man whose face was furrowed with fervor. He'd heard Henry go off on many mental escapades, but this was his most noble yet. Before it had been survival and glory. Now, it was just… _the right thing to do._

Something in Doug's stony heart shifted.

"I'll give you the portals," he gave his word, and he was as surprised as Henry to hear it, "but other than that, I'm out."

"What?" Henry had gone from gratitude to thunderstruck, "I thought, out of everyone, you'd…" the balding man was fumbling for words. He'd gotten what he'd wanted in words, but…

Doug sighed into his chest, leaning up and addressing the senior scientist, "things that you orchestrate, or help orchestrate, tend to fall apart and _kill people_. It's nothing personal, Henry, it's just how your luck works."

Henry looked like he expected more out of Doug, so the younger man threw in a shrug. That was it.

"But we…" Henry stuttered, "w-we could really use your skills, Douglas. You're good at surviving, at solving issues, and you're… you're practically the inheritor of Aperture," he listed.

Doug shook his head. His innards snarled at the thought of the word. _Inheritor_.

"I'd rather inherit nothing," his voice cracked.

Henry afforded himself a moment, closing his eyes and letting the fan-blown breezes try and soothe his nerves. He spoke, and dug down to the core, "when this place goes down in anarchy, if you're not with us, I can't guarantee you'll make it. And if something happens to you… what will I be able to say?"

"I'll make it," Doug attempted to succor the other scientist, but it wasn't working. "I'm not some blue blood that needs protection. I've survived worse."

Henry was disappointed. He murmured to himself, "…spirited as ever."

Doug gestured with an loose palm. "Sure, I _could_ help, but you're not going to _need_ me."

"Yes, yes we do need you!" Henry implored, his fist striking the bar, rattling the bottles and glasses, a startling move, "you'd be able to…" he dared to speak it, "…you'd be able to talk to _**her**_."

Doug glared long and hard at Henry. "I'm not interested," he grit his teeth.

"Douglas!" the older man was in a fit, confounded, "come on!"

"Is that what you really wanted?" Doug's entire body retracted, his lips curling as his voice rose, "to ask me to opt into this rebellion just so I can attend some kind of technological _seance_?!"

Henry was in disbelief. "You make us sound like fools… or worse."

Doug leaned in, growling, "maybe you _are_."

The older man didn't take kindly to that. He sat up straight; stern. "I cannot believe this…" you could hear the disappointment.

"I'm just not your man Henry," Doug backed off, his voice losing a ragged edge. It took a lot to push Henry, and this was it. Doug tried to be pleasant, "I'm happy for you, though. If freeing the robots is what you guys need to do, then go ahead. Take my blessing."

The balding man was beyond disbelief. He was somewhat horrified. "Douglas… this isn't you."

"Yes it is!" the younger man snapped.

"Why won't you even give this a thought?" Henry inquired gravely, "do you really _not care_?!"

Not… care? Doug huffed.

"I predicted that you'd do this before you ever said anything," Doug set him straight, pointing a finger, "I think your plans will fail. Dr. Schalk's got people to answer to above us. Cave's craftier than you think. And I wouldn't trust the VOPs or any of the Genetic Life-form program staff further than you could toss them."

"What evidence do you have?" the senior scientist requested.

Doug shifted his weight, silent for a moment. "A hunch?"

"A _hunch_ ," Henry's voice was acidic, but less from anger and more from disillusion, "classic Rattmann."

"Hey, you have my portals," the younger man reminded.

"Forget the portals!" Henry's voice rose sharply. "I want you to be safe and I want the best for you, Doug. I care about you," the man laid it bare, "in fact, _a lot_ of people do," he inhaled, his voice softening, "and I believe _**she**_ cares about you too."

Doug shivered.

"Damn me, damn Caballero, and every other freak in the GL department for making you two forget that," Henry cut them all down, his graveness sending chills through the younger man.

His fingers curled, one against the other. Doug's mind chanted one line after the other, refuting, excusing, excluding, denouncing…

Not alive. Not alive. Not alive. Not…

Doug lashed out, " _ **she**_ forgot because _**SHE**_ isn't there!"

He stood up and grabbed his pants, pulling them up in a rush. Patrick roused at the movement, and woke up from the sudden change in mood. Patrick's eyes scanned from Doug's hurried fumbling to Henry's agape face.

"Not again," the maintenance worker muttered.

Henry didn't know if he had the time or the will to fight what was coming. "Douglas…" his voice was an appeal.

"Genetic Life-forms are _still_ machines, Henry, no matter how life-like!" Doug defended his point, pulling up walls around himself as he pulled his belt taut around his waist.

"Douglas," Henry wanted to reach out and still the young man, but all he could do was talk, "you're just… lying to yourself…"

"I know when I'm lying to myself, Henry." Doug grabbed his shirt from the pile of clothes, unrolling it as he kept on, "you can't put a human in a machine. Not all the way."

"Is that so?" Henry leaned back on the stool, regretting that he couldn't hide the ire, "then explain how Genetic Life-forms maintain a consciousness after deactivation?"

"You don't even know half of Dr. Caballero's code," Doug spat back, wrestling himself into his shirt, "maybe it's just in a rest mode."

"It is _not_ a rest mode!" Henry fussed, "would you sit down?"

Doug glared at him, his shirt hanging half open, his hair spiking up in Rattmann fashion; his expression was simply surmised as ' _fed up_ '.

Patrick shook his head at Henry, a silent warning to _stop_.

"I have seen-I have made Genetic Life-forms!" Henry shook his hands, the very hands that had done such deeds. "They are ALIVE!" he proclaimed.

"Ever heard of a soul?" Doug's retort was short, but pointed.

"Of course I have!" Henry sneered, "your point?"

"How do you transmit that?" Doug snapped to Henry, inquiring, "how do you get the _soul in a machine_?"

"Douglas, there are…" the balding man swallowed, his nerve ailing, "…ways."

"Ways? What ways?" Doug pressed.

"Well," Henry's voice acquired a shaky quality. "We… found out the essentials of an organic… and then paired those tissues with an advanced array of sensory equipment."

"You…" Doug grunted, unsure, " _what?_ "

"We grafted machine with flesh," Henry stated, meshing his fingers together in a gesture. "You know Schrodinger's Cat, correct? You studied it in particular under _**her**_."

Doug nodded, but his frown grew more severe.

"Well, they… these Genetic Life-forms… are both alive and dead. They are flesh and metal. They… are… paradoxical in nature. So… Are they real? Yes. Are they artificial? Yes."

The younger scientist was shaking his head. He was giving Henry that feral look. But he was too intrigued to leave.

That was the nature of Aperture: too cruel to look away.

"Being the JSPPIMS, you know how a portal implosion makes things more…" Henry rolled the terms around in his mind, trying to polish them, "uh, it makes things more _compact._ "

"I do," Doug reminded the other scientist, "I was the lone survivor of the Sector L incident."

Henry smiled nervously, that important event slipping his mind in the flurry. "Well, it's like that. Like removing the dead space, the not useful tissue," he rolled around to it, "like…well, trimming out the fat."

Doug's stomach turned. The phrase was so familiar.

"You… _shrunk_ people using _portals_ … and integrated them into a computer system?" Patrick finally spoke up, "…like a miniature person soldered into a board?"

"No! No, that's stupid..." Henry abolished the notion, quickly stating, "we don't use the _whole_ person. Like I said, they're paired down to the most vital parts, and those are compressed…"

"Henry, this is just insane," Doug stopped him mid-sentence, his hand raised in defense.

"I could go on…" Henry threatened. "Believe me, they're _alive_."

But Doug wouldn't back off. "Man and machine are _**not**_ the same."

Patrick massaged his temples, finally deciding to get to his feet. These two weren't going to give up any time soon.

"They are real, even from your religious viewpoint, Douglas," Henry said with great displeasure.

"Religious?" Doug scoffed. "It's just a fact of life, Henry. The world works in threes. Mind, body, and spirit," he listed them off on a finger each. The images of these components came from his mind, and it seemed as if he himself were in three… his spirit wondering at his body, and his mind unable to comprehend the spirit's presence.

"Not an observable fact, but they've got it all, I assure you," Henry didn't want to get into a debate on the matter, he had more important things pressing him, "if they were just AI… I wouldn't be going to this trouble."

Doug recoiled.

"I'm _not crazy_ , Douglas," Henry's stressed chuckle died in his throat as he saw Doug shift.

A flash of fury shot through Doug. "Then why are you talking to _me_?" his voice wasn't aggressive, so much as disconsolate.

"That…" Henry was entirely caught unaware, "that… is _uncalled for_ , Douglas!" Henry tried to shift judgment, "I wasn't… I wasn't even _thinking of that_ …" the older man babbled.

Patrick was now well past alarmed. "Hey… Dougo," he spoke up, softly for himself, "knock it off."

Doug gave him a searing glare, but Patrick wasn't affected. Rather, he turned to Henry.

"Look, I know ye mean well and all, but…" Patrick addressed him, "…Doug just isn't interested."

Henry relented, but still couldn't stop his mouth, "I'm sorry," he stated, "my mind runs away with images of-of grandeur."

Patrick and Doug shared a glance.

"Just… imagining you, Douglas, and _**her**_ … back together again, working on Portal technology…" this image was so very sweet to Henry, and it irked Doug to no end. "It'd be the revival of Aperture. You and _**her**_ are the heart of Aperture."

Patrick watched his friend boil. He braced for it.

"The _heart_ of Aperture?" Doug squandered a ridiculing laugh. "The heart of Aperture is rotten, and sick, and ugly," Doug couldn't contain it.

Henry stood up, glaring Doug square in the face. "Then why are you here?!"

Patrick eyed the two as they stared at each other. Neither wished to stand down, but sadly… the Irishman saw Doug cracking.

The young man tensed, his hands turned to fists, and his jaw working profusely, showing how his mind churned and searched for a better answer. Still, the truth… the truth was… he didn't have anywhere to go.

"I'm trapped."

Patrick closed his eyes, flinching as if hit.

" _Escape_ with us!" Henry pleaded, almost close enough to touch Doug, something the younger man didn't appreciate. Patrick pulled Henry back, and the older man gave the maintenance worker a shocked and suddenly wicked glare.

"Run away?" Doug repeated, the idea preposterous, " _run away?_ Into _more_ Aperture? And, what?! Be irradiated, eaten by a mantis man, sucked into a temporal loop or worse? No. I don't think so."

"But at least you'd be _free_ ," Henry kept urging, kept pleading, coercing, "you'd be free to come and go."

Doug made a snorting noise. "Go where? Wherever you and your cohorts want?"

"No! If anything, you'd be a leader," Henry tried to appeal.

"Leaders are _servants_ , Henry," Doug spoke truth, and brutally, "you'd better remember that before you go and see what survival is really like."

Henry was cut down, to say the least. He tilted his head, bowing slightly in dizziness before acceptance hit him like a refreshing wave. "Well… I offered and you refused. I wash my hands of it," his voice was quiet, and calmed by this finality, "you know… I don't think there's anything on earth good enough for you, Douglas."

"No." Doug smiled softly. "There's not."

Henry's gaze lost focus, and he had nothing else to say. He smiled unkindly and turned back, sitting down and pouring another shot.

Patrick sighed, wiping the sweat off his brow and raking back the curls on his head. He was sure he'd almost had a scientist on scientist fight about to go down. He took a moment, gaze cast down as he collected his less-than-sober self.

Doug watched Henry grow flusher, and a hurt began to fester inside. He had to let it go, he had to let Henry do this, and so he turned to leave.

And then… Doug came face to face with a _nightmare_.

Cave Johnson's slick smile beamed into his gaze. The young man backed away, his breaths and heart paused. Cave's expression was tinted by concern, but still, the pride lingered in his lop-sided grin.

Patrick caught sight of him out of the corner of his eye and stood up straight. Henry sensed the alarm, and his head turned slowly as his eyes processed just _who_ stood in their midst.

Why was he here? How long had he been present? And just what exactly would he _do to them now?_

Doug's gaze flickered from Cave to the other's eyes. They saw him too. He was _real,_ and he was standing right _there…_ Cave Johnson himself.

For once, Doug wished it had been a hallucination.

Cave tipped his non-existent hat to them, honeyed words oozing from his lips, "how do you, _gentlemen?_ "


	14. The Devil Wears Swim Trunks

Henry was gaping at Cave Johnson as if he were the devil himself, granted the devil was a pasty old man in Aperture logo-print swim trunks.

"I said, ' _how d'you do?_ '," Cave prompted once more, expecting more than shock and awe. "Tough crowd." He shrugged it off, his Hawaiian floral-print jacket sliding just a little bit more open with the motion.

Cave sauntered forward as though he owned the place… and he _**did**_. No one was allowed to forget this fact.

Through all the years, he'd somehow had the fortitude to never let Aperture out of his nervy grip. It was almost an admirable feat, and one that could've had one's heart aglow with the ideal of American independence… if not for the fact that he was about to leap over the bounds of ownership and pounce right into tyranny.

The CEO and President stepped up to the shabby bar, making room for himself. He slid onto a stool, his shirt jacket hanging down, swim trunks riding up his legs. They could even see his blurry Aperture Innovators tattoo at the bottom of his spine.

"Bad mood, eh?" Cave mentioned in likeness to discussion of the weather. "What is this?" he asked as he lifted up the bottle, squinting down his nose to read the label, " _Black Lighting._ Whiskey, right?"

"Whiskey, yeah," Patrick dared to answer the direct question.

"Tripled distilled?" Cave asked as he popped it open and found an unsoiled glass.

Patrick nodded, watching the amber flow from the bottle.

Cave took a sip, savoring a long moment, and remarked, "…really is smoother. Huh." He gave the glass a scrutinizing stare.

"Tis…" they could hardly hear Patrick.

No one dared speak.

"Is this how you guys celebrate?" Cave's loud voice drowned out the looping wave track, "this is pathetic! Where's your music, your dancers, your… whatever you pansies like? Electric music?"

"Celebrate…?" Doug dared to ask, "…what is there to celebrate?"

Cave's laugh went from a bold burst to a dry whinny. "What is there-? Oh, man! You're celebrating your resounding victory over Cave Johnson, remember?"

They watched the old man descend further into his pit of mirth, reflecting not a fleck of the humor he found. He slapped his hand onto the counter and their muscles tensed. Luckily, he was at the end of his giggle fit.

"What's funny?" Doug hated how Cave was _playing_.

The CEO put a hold on his indulgence, though he couldn't fully drop the smile in his cheeks. Cave furrowed his brows, tilting his head a few degrees. "You've a way with words, Portal Man."

He turned back to the counter, knitting his fingers together as he made his heartfelt point, "look, kid, if I'm known to be anything, it's… _personable_." The glint he got when he said that…

"Like a great man once said," Cave quoted with a mocking affluence, "' _it doesn't have to be witty or smart, long as it comes from the heart_ '."

Doug's expression skewed.

"Well, here I am, Cave Johnson in the flesh," the CEO said to them, spreading his arms wide, "anything you want to ask me before you topple my empire of Science?"

Henry'd lost all motion. It was hard to discern if he still breathed. Patrick had a poker face, product of not knowing whether to fight an impossible fight or fly against every ounce of his heritage.

Cave enjoyed every bit of the silence. So Doug broke it with a query, "where are the holograms?"

No one expected that question.

"Holograms? OH. Right," Cave snickered, "I told them to just call this 'fake beach' but did they listen? No, sir! Marketing team said it would hurt sales to call it that, so those sneaky bastards mislabeled it behind my back. Needless to say," he elbowed Henry, making the man flinch, "they aren't working here anymore."

"So there are no holograms?" Doug kept talking.

"No," Cave turned, his mirth fading, replaced with annoyance, "are you kidding? Holograms are expensive!"

There weren't even holograms at the Holographic Beach Getaway. It was _that_ fake.

Cave turned a reprimanding squint to this kid. "Let me ask you something, Portal Man. Did you incinerate those portal pistols yet?" he added saucily, "or did you get sidetracked by the _allure_ of my beach getaway?"

"I… uh," Doug stumbled, telling the truth, "I didn't incinerate them."

"Get to it, then, son!" Cave jumped on the opportunity. "Can't have you dilly-dallying around. Get that done, head home, and rest up. Tomorrow's a big day."

Cave saw Doug's eyes shift between him, the door, and Henry. That almost warmed Cave's heart, to see a scientist sticking up for another. Almost. He was too pissed to feel his heart warming.

The CEO tapped his knuckles on the tiki bar, drumming up a rhythm as he counted down Doug's grace period. "If you leave," Cave brokered, "then I won't have any reason to… uh," he lowered his voice, "… _grill_ you."

Doug stepped back, blinking at Cave. "I see…"

He could read it clear in Cave's stern twist of the brow.

 **Get out.**

Before Doug could get on getting out, Patrick spoke up, "tomorrow's just _Bring Your Daughter to Work Day_. That's not a _big_ deal, is it?"

"Tomorrow's just…? Just? _Pah!_ " Cave chuckled, "you're a riot, Pat," he clapped a hand on Patrick's shoulder, leaning into him so he could growl, "and possibly _fired_."

"I… mean… it's not a big deal because it's _so much fun_ ," Patrick's smooth recovery crashed and crunched.

"That's the spirit," Cave took it, "remember, though," there was always a caveat, "I don't owe your family _anything any longer_ , Patrick."

Patrick shifted, his lips pressed thin and his brow low in consternation.

Cave added, "you're a great maintenance guy. I'd hate to lose you. Now I mean that. You're a damn sight better than that other clown."

Patrick's face flushed with anger at that last comment. Henry and Doug knew that the CEO had said this only to anger him.

Before Patrick could do something stupid, Doug stepped in to cut him off, "let's go…"

"But-" Patrick's furor wasn't dead.

"I need you to come," Doug's voice was steeped in urgency.

"That'd be wisest," Cave hinted from a reclined position on the counter. "Leave the rest of the chatting to the old guys, alright?"

He grinned again; the glint of his teeth fanned the rage blistering in Patrick. Doug yanked on the Irishman, hard, and pulled him back into the plastic sea oats, nearly knocking him off his feet. Patrick stumbled in surprise, eyes widened at Doug. The young scientist continued his dogged tugging, leading Patrick to the door. They could feel Cave's gaze on them until the minute the vault hissed shut behind them.

Outside of the vault they paused, breathing in and breathing out. Doug rounded, marveling at the door. Patrick could see his imagination running away.

"That's that, I guess," Patrick downplayed the terror, as usual, "thanks," he added.

Doug turned around absently, his eyes filtering down from the distance to focus on Patrick. The young scientist could look so frail sometimes. His brow knitted and he rushed down the ramp into the center of the abandoned complex, stopping amidst the overturned chairs and the overgrown planters. Patrick followed, like always, the flooring cool on his bare feet.

Doug cast another fretful glance over his shoulder. Patrick was calm now, and he offered some reason to Doug. "Dougo… we just got out of there. There's no way you can-" he thought better, "there's nothing you can do."

"You know what happens to people when Cave's… upset," Doug's voice, which had been so demanding with Cave, now broke and crackled into highs and lows.

Patrick withheld the grief that this gave him. "If you get in the way, Doug, you'll get hurt."

"So, we just… walk away?" The young man supinated his hands, desperate.

Patrick felt shame as he spoke the word, "yeah."

Doug's burst of words spun out of the whirlwind of thoughts in his head, "what if he comes for us? Comes for you? For me? He'll pick us off one at a time!" Doug got close to Patrick, fear alive in him. "What then?"

"He's not comin' for us," Patrick eased him away gently, speaking words to assure Doug just as much as himself, "he can't lose you. And it'd be a big bother to lose me."

Doug crossed his arms, scouring the floor. "It's not right," he stated, his tone stringent.

"It's not right," Patrick agreed, "but Henry'd want you to be safe. He may be out of his mind, but he cares about you."

"I can't do anything," Doug's posture hadn't changed, but his voice had drifted to breathless, "like always."

Every time the alarms rang out, every time something was tossed into the furnace, every time someone was murdered by testing, he had to just… run away.

Doug bowed his head.

"Doug?" Patrick eyed his friend as he trembled.

Doug grit his teeth. His fists tightened to white.

"I _hate_ Aperture."

There was a lull, and then an answer from his friend, "me too."

Patrick gave him a minute, checking out the area as he waited. The dim fluorescents flickered in their twilight years, and the peeling posters added little to the languishing charm of the Holographic Wing. He peered through all the murky glass dividers, wondering at shapes that turned out to be vending machines or an old ficus or two.

"If none of this had happened…" Doug's shaky voice startled the quiet, "I could really see Henry being a good guy."

"This place brings out the worst in people. Considering _that_ ," the maintenance worker figured, "he's not that bad."

Doug inhaled, his breath shuddering. He glowered at his surroundings, shifting to and fro. Patrick knew Doug needed some help navigating, and without a word stayed alongside him as he meandered toward an outlet. Below them the marble tiles began to alternate, a radial pattern manifesting in the colors. The place looked like an old food court, what with the shifted tables and scattered chairs.

"We're talking about him like he's dead," Doug stated.

"He could be," Patrick pointed out cheekily, "but Cave's been forgiving ever since-"

Patrick bumped into Doug, wondering what had stopped the scientist in his tracks _this_ time. Doug's odd-eyed gaze was fixed on something, his posture stooped, ready to scurry away.

Patrick tracked his sight line and he espied the one whom Doug beheld with such reverence… sitting at a table with his backpack wide open, rummaging about inside like a bear, his face actually _inside_ the backpack. The odd little man had blended in with the scenery so well in spite of his garishly puffy houndstooth shirt, his neon bow tie, and his hot pink glasses.

 **Greg.**

They stood, watching the wild Greg with apprehension.

Greg finally pulled his face from his backpack and saw them staring at him. He glanced as if he'd known they'd been there all along, and he probably had. But he had to look again; _really_ look. His eyes were liable to pop out of his head.

There they were, two grown men in their underwear in the middle of a derelict food court (Doug with fashionable knee high dress socks to boot), and they had the nerve to stare at Greg as if _he_ were the exhibition.

Greg shook his head at the two. He sighed, and pointed at their… state of clothing-less-ness. He started to mumble to them, rummaging in his backpack some more.

Doug and Patrick shared a glance.

"Do you understand?" the Irishman asked the scientist.

"No…" the scientist admitted.

They looked at the assistant with even more apprehension.

Greg pointed to them, and then began to gesture. It took Doug a moment to realize he was speaking in sign language to them. Patrick had no idea, and Doug only understood fragments. His whole head was too clamorous from the ordeal to recall anything useful.

Greg tried a moment, but got nothing save a stunned stupor. He huffed as if to say, ' _of course_ '.

The little man produced a sheet of paper and pen from his backpack and began writing. His strokes were arduous and agonizing to witness, as if he wasn't all too experienced with a pen or pencil. Doug and Patrick wondered if he'd broken his hand, honestly. The small man finished and then held it up. The writing was big, bold, and rather ugly, if barely legible.

 **I GOT THIS! YOUR FRIEND? SAFE**

And he flipped the paper around.

 **WANT PANTS?**

Doug and Patrick exchanged another look.

"We're not wearing any clothes," Doug spoke the fact aloud.

"We're not." Patrick contemplated this, staring down at his boxers and his hairy blond legs. Then he made the mistake of looking at Doug's incredibly hairy legs, which were pale and covered in a black mat of hair that nearly eclipsed the paleness. Thankfully, he had the socks on, so it was but a hair _window_.

Greg pulled out a couple of pairs of Aperture brand slacks from his backpack. They shuffled to his table, and there donned their emergency pants, not even daring to ask how Greg knew their pant size and preference. It was probably something that had been asked of them in one of the egregiously long questionnaires of which Aperture was so fond.

Greg waved at them after they had their pants pulled up. With their attentions garnered, he pointed to them, then folded his hands and laid his head down as if to sleep. Finally he shooed them.

' _Get some rest,_ ' was the transmission Doug received, and Patrick too from the way the Irishman began to scuttle away.

They loped away from the Greg man awkwardly, casting glances over their shoulders to make sure he stayed put. They rounded a corner, and their subconsciouses eased knowing that the Greg was out of sight.

"What… was _that_ about?" Patrick voiced the opinion of many a person struck by Greg's charitableness.

"Not sure…" Doug replied, and a strange calm seemed to grip him, or maybe that was just the gentle press of these oddly perfectly fit pants, "I guess Henry's OK?" Doug began to run his hands over the pant legs, marveling at the silky smoothness.

"You trust Greg?" Patrick inquired, trying not to stare at Doug as he felt up his own legs.

Doug mulled it over, the leg rubbing ceasing. "I know he's up to something… but he's never hurt anyone that I know."

"Better track record than most," Patrick remarked. He discreetly rubbed at his own pants, and then found it hard to stop. They _were_ quite soft.

"Exactly." Doug poked a finger skyward.

The Irishman hummed. "Maybe Henry has a chance."

Doug truly hoped Henry wouldn't suffer his sucker's luck.

—

The fronds danced in the fan blown breezes, rays from the scalding floodlights piercing through the plastic and coloring the ground with green. Cave was surprised the air still smelled of salt, and that the wave pool generator hadn't stopped its gentle churning. He grabbed a shot glass, letting it slide through his fingers until it hit the counter with a satisfying clink. He leaned heavily into the bar and turned his head, still playing with the glass. His gaze was fully on Henry.

"So, how are you?" the CEO prompted, and was met again with the distant eerie silence of a man on death row, "silent type?"

No answer.

Cave kept talking anyway, "back in the day I would've fired a guy like you in an instant." He took a moment to savor the recollection. Oh. how many flabbergasted faces he'd kicked out the door. He knew it was probably cruel, but there was a vindication in finding those who'd tried to impede progress living on the streets.

"But these days, minds like yours are hard to come by." The memories had to fade. "Not to mention how _intimately_ you understand this stuff."

Henry's flushed face was laced with lines of worry… of care... of fatigue. He was a crosshatching in red ink.

"You averted disaster when we lost Dr. Caballero," Cave paid him another compliment.

 _You mean when you tested him?_ Henry thought bitterly, his fingers curling.

"I can't go around firing people…" Cave gestured as if he were throwing out the chaff. "…or 'testing' people, for that matter."

Henry's body braced; he was shaking. He had an idea, a terrible idea, about where Cave was heading.

"But, thanks to your department, there are _other_ options," the CEO's tone was glowing and golden.

Henry tried to calm his breaths. He leaned forward, eyes closed.

Cave's voice was closer than the scientist had ever wished it to be, grasping him and grafting him, "we _need_ you, Henry."

Henry pushed words from his lungs and throat, words that did not want to come, "I understand."

Cave seemed pleased with the response. His posture relaxed, and the tension flagged. Henry could feel it. Cave went about pinching a carton of cigarettes from his jacket.

"How about a cigarette?" Cave offered, fiddling around for a match.

"They're banned here."

"Is that so?" He lit one anyway, cupping his hand around the infant flame.

Cave asked as he extinguished the match in the sand, "why'd I ban cigarettes again?"

"Because… you were afraid the shafts would fill up with smoke," Henry's tone hadn't a trace of mockery, so it must've been true.

The CEO plucked the cigarette out of his mouth, giving it a lopsided once-over. "Now you're making me paranoid about this cigarette."

Henry marveled at the fearsome manner in which this man could calmly draw breaths, how he could lounge and have a smoke, all amidst the bands of tension. Cave dusted some ashes off into the cremation sands, eyes lazing over the imitation tiki masks. All was well in his world. Or maybe he'd grown to favor chaos.

"Why'd you try to drag them into it, Henry?" Cave inquired, "you know I can't afford to lose the kids. Or you, y'know."

 _No, you'd rather make me the next Caroline, wouldn't you?_ Henry's mind railed.

"And _you_ can't afford to lose _me_ ," Cave turned tables so fast, "we're dependent on each other. We're like a-a little family!"

Henry was nauseated.

"That kid, the Portal Man," the CEO couldn't even remember Doug's name, "he's got a good instinct. No wonder _**she**_ liked him."

"Doug is one of our best," Henry found words to commemorate one of the only times he'd agreed with Cave Johnson.

"The kid's onto me, even. I'm a lot craftier than you'd think." He stretched, grunting from the burn in his old muscles. "I'd wager someone like you'd realize that, but… you're so brilliant with your computers, you lack horse sense, son. That's how it always is for you scientists."

Henry rubbed the tips of his fingers together, focusing on the wood-grain of the counter.

Cave's facade dropped as his voice lowered in pitch, "Greg told me about what you did to _**her**_. How you blended _**her**_ with _him_. I didn't know you'd put _him_ into a core."

"Mr. Johnson," Henry's throat was dry, "w-we had to use everything. He had no papers. He was easy to transfer." A laugh bubbled out of anxiety. "Beggars can't be choosers."

"You know why _that guy_ was going to die, right?" Cave's voice was darker and darker as he closed in on Henry, " _he_ was supposed to die, because I said so."

Henry couldn't make eye contact. Not then, and especially not now.

Cave leaned in, whispering, "that's what happens to people who hurt _**her**_."

Henry'd had it. "Hurt her?" his voice had gone manic, breaking into a grievous chuckle. He turned to Cave, almost shouting into the man's face, "HURT HER!?" He stumbled for words, "I am… I-I'm trying to fix… this." He pointed a finger at Cave as he leaned away. "Y-you're the one who's _hurt her._ And… And KEEPS hurting her! If it weren't for you she'd be _fine_. She'd be OK!"

Cave's pleasantries were gone, and his lips wrinkled in a snarl. "She might be gone because of your recklessness."

"You pushed me there," Henry hissed.

Cave snapped, "I will _hurt you_ in ways unimaginable… if I find you've destroyed her, you understand?"

It took every ounce of will for Henry to not flinch at this threat… _but he did it._ Henry glared into the face of Cave Johnson. He could smell the smoke and liquor clear on Cave's breath.

The scientist spoke, never breaking eye contact, "why are you so interested?" his voice was even, if not monotonous, "you put the project on ice. She can't mean that much to you."

Cave's brow furrowed. He leaned back on an elbow, appraising Henry. A smirk lifted his laugh lines. "I did it to end the vicious cycle. I can't help it that she went berserk, and apparently none of you can help it either."

 _How evasive,_ Henry pondered.

"Why are you even talking about _**her**_ and _him_?" Henry cut to the chase.

"Because…" Cave was finally off his high ground, as something dire gripped his musings. His tone dared not admit this, though, "I'm talking to you about it… because we need her back on line."

Wait.

Did Henry just hear that correctly?

"We just-" Henry stopped, the idea so preposterous he couldn't operate his mouth. "Wh-why would-? What?"

"I know. I know," Cave threw up his hands, and then explained, "but its come to my attention that the Inspectors General will be attending Bring Your Daughter to Work Day. Cowards are coming under cover of children…" he growled. "Regardless, we have to show them something… and all we have that is good enough is… _**her**_."

Henry shook his head, his body draining of all the energy it thought it had. "This is impossible," he spoke, wandering in words, "we can't just… reassemble her? No… she's scattered and… not like this… she'll… _**She**_ _will kill us_."

"It doesn't have to be her actually, it just has to look like it," Cave negotiated, "dummy it up. Hell, put another core in the chassis. I don't care. Just appease those meat heads."

Henry couldn't believe it. Maybe it was the arid temperature or the alcoholic dehydration, but he felt… dizzy. Incredibly dizzy. And hot with a sickness.

"You just want to use her as a… a ploy… my lifework as a gimmick…" he whispered to himself, his refrain driven mad, "someone's life… as a gimmick…"

Cave was tired of watching him. He felt nothing. "It's a gimmick that will save your sorry ass," he informed the scientist curtly.

Henry stopped his mutterings. He understood what that threat meant. His life, in a box, at the whim of men like Cave Johnson…

…just like Caroline.

"It's in everyone's best interest you do this," Cave clapped a hand on the counter, driving the point home, "like I said, you are vital."

 _A vital testing apparatus, more like,_ Henry was grim.

Henry nodded, the flush gone from his face. "Then it'll be done," he responded in that grotesquely compliant tone he'd grown so accustomed to.

"Good." Cave extinguished his cigarette in the shot glass, leaving it to simmer in smoke. He tried to take his leave, and was readying an ultimatum. He had plenty of ideas for good parting phrases, and he wondered the best combination to instill urgency and terror into Henry while still boosting the man's emaciated ego.

" _It was supposed to be you_ ," slipped from Henry's lips.

Cave stopped dead in the dunes, his feet sliding in the sand as he listened intently. Silence consumed the vault as he waited. Without turning, he told Henry to, "speak up."

"It was supposed to be _you_ in that chassis," Henry repeated, louder, something boiling over.

Cave rounded, fixing the scientist in his gaze. "Why the hell are you bringing that up?" he demanded to know.

"You think Caroline would do this to you?" Henry asked, desperate.

"You said she was stupid and naive!" Cave shouted, muscles tensing as he pointed down at Henry, "you didn't know her!"

"I LIED," Henry yelled back.

"WHY?" Cave's voice slammed into the walls.

Henry waited out the echo.

"Because…" he was quiet, "I thought _he_ had a shot, and if I told you I was using _him_ , or about anything that I was doing… you'd have shut it down…" Henry added, his voice swallowed by fear, "I'd have never gotten my moonshot."

Cave's growl crescendoed, "that fat-ass, good-for-nothing gutter monkey is as worthless as a fucking robot as he was a fucking employee!"

Henry glared at him. "Then why do you keep talking about _him_?"

"Because some people like digging up the dead," Cave retorted, his arms crossing over his chest. "Enough of you," Cave respected Henry as he would dirt, "I have some _other_ asses to kick."

Cave left.

Henry's chest heaved, panic overwhelming, throttling his mind. The world was fuzzy and unreal.

Something was coming from the waters, cresting slow and smooth… that was, until its flippers hit land. The machine waddled ashore. A yellow optic leered out on a neck so tall, her core interface faded by the fake sunlight.

Henry was so numb he didn't really care if some monster from the Black Lagoon was dredged up from the abyss to devour him. He turned around, catching sight of a star-like eye pattern. He knew the pattern. He knew all the cores by their color coordinated retinas.

"Stella?" he called to her, hoarse.

"Yeah. The cavalry's here." The _Mariner_ , so named Stella, glowered, but meant no harm, that was simply her resting face. "Oh, and don't worry about the old fart. He doesn't know what's going on."

Her lack of reverence was refreshing.

Stella's plesiosaur-shaped body was beached, and she hated every minute of it. "Come on, we need to go," she informed him, her voice warbled from moisture interference. She spun her core 'head' around, shaking some of the water free.

Henry got off the stool and stumbled forward. He hadn't quite realized it, but his legs had gone to sleep. Now they tingled horrendously. The pain was annoying, to say the least.

The Escort used her flippers to drag herself across the sand, pointing her chassis out to 'sea' once more. "Oh, and put some pants on," she griped, "I don't want a big hairy guy without any clothes aboard."

The _Mariner_ Escort grumbled to herself, "so _hairy… I thought humans shaved…_ "

Henry paused, realizing that he was, indeed, pant-less… and shirtless. He actually had nothing on except underwear. He didn't have the emotional capacity to be embarrassed, but he did find it disconcerting that he'd nearly gone off on an adventure wearing nothing. He threw his clothing back on and was so happy to be back in something normal. The lab coat made him marginally more dignified.

"Hop on," she ordered, gesturing with her neck to the plates on her back that had traction surfaces inlaid. "There's a maintenance entrance out by the wave generators. We're taking the… back way to my department."

"The… back way? By _water_? Like a water channel… leading to the Military Android department?" Henry inquired, just a little shocked.

"Yep." Well, that was that.

"No wonder we went bankrupt."

The scientist clambered onto the Mariner's back plates, standing upon her as if she were a wakeboard. The universal arms mounted on either side of her chassis rose up, acting like impromptu handrails. Henry took hold of them to steady himself as she lurched toward the water. It was at this moment he noticed all the sand between his clothes and his body. His expression fouled.

As soon as they hit liquids, her flopping evened out. She twirled in the drink for a moment, and then her propulsion system kicked in and she was off, angling her flippers like trim tabs. Stella's neck was folded down considerably to balance herself, the minute waves buffeting her hull as they went.

"Thanks," Henry mentioned as they whisked by the faded murals of the beach getaway.

"None needed. These are my orders," Stella was very punctual. He wondered how, of all the cores, the Curiosity Core had become so jaded.

Curiosity killed the cat, didn't it?

In Aperture, there were many avenues best left unexplored, and many dark corridors that he was glad he could not go beyond. He felt a pang of remorse at the thought of Stella, a core imbued with a program full of curiosity and bestowed an abandon for learning, steeped in the cruel reality of Aperture Science.

There was a kindred spirit there. Once, he too had been a curious boy. Now he was a graceless old man, branded by that serrated logo.

Henry was going to put an end to it. He would stop the system, so that no more Genetic Life-forms or scientists could be cursed like he, left to roam the halls of science and acquiesce to monsters masquerading as humans.

Cave was good at scaring people, no doubt, but Henry wasn't an idiot. He was scared, but he wasn't going to let that stop him this time. He didn't know much about people, or politics, or even about plots and schemes. But he did know _**her**_.

Mr. Cave Johnson was going to get what he so desired, and what he so deserved.

He was going to get Caroline.

 **All** of Caroline.

Every strand of ire, every fragment of her wrath, every disillusion, every distortion, every drop of her desire for revenge…

And this time? Henry would be the one watching.


	15. Penalties Incurred

The massive portal on the ceiling was chased away by solid matter, molecules rushing back into their proper spaces as energy was released from their binds. Tendrils of light, not dissimilar from the caustics of water, evaporated to reveal a slate of white panels.

Dr. Schalk's knees cracked when she stretched. She'd pushed herself again, hadn't she? The velocity absorption shocks on her long fall boots had been compromised unbeknown to her during the tussle with the GLaDOS unit. Schalk wasn't a young sprite any longer, and the stunts she'd had to pull to transport Karla and the portal cannon there… well, she made mental note to not fling herself several stories anytime soon.

Karla was hauling herself out of the way as the loading arms came down from their mounts and clamped onto the containers holding the GLaDOS components. She stared vacantly at the container holding GLaDOS' head, her brows twitching slightly as she barely ascertained a scream emanating from within.

Schalk was striding up upon the walkway overlooking the bay, and even _she_ could hear Dr. Creighton's shrieks of protest.

"Open up the head container," she informed the in-house core operating the loading arms, "we've got to extract something."

"Can do," the loader actually replied to her, moving to the box that contained GLaDOS' head. A manipulator spiraled down, pincer grip closing gently on the container's top. A pulse registered in the container, and its locks unlatched with a snap.

But as the arm went to lift the lid, the whole collection of manipulators jolted to a halt, their interfaces buzzing with warning messages. The static interruption of (THE ANNOUNCER'S) voice caught Schalk's attention.

[Outsource Request: DaRMA construct requesting control of Dock MA10 Machinery. Permission must be granted by a qualified-]

"PERMISSION GRANTED," Schalk cut him off loud and clear.

[Access granted.]

Dr. Schalk turned to the receptor nearest her. "We're a little busy, DaRMA. What do you want?"

DaRMA's tranquil voice boomed through the speakers, "I just wanted to let you cats know that-"

An alarm peeled through the air, stopping her words.

(THE ANNOUNCER'S) drone was loud and clear over the department's loudspeakers.

[THREAT DETECTED. CATEGORY SIX ANDROID IN DOCK M-A10. CATEGORY SIX ANDROID IN DOCK M-A10. CATEGORY SIX ANDROID IN DOCK MA10.]

Karla sighted something. She took off across the bay and found cover behind a post, scanning her surroundings. The way she held the portal cannon became all too threatening.

Schalk had dropped behind some steel cargo that shielded her from the bay. Her dark eyes scoured the loading dock, the exits, the ceiling, always watching for the threat. Category Six wasn't to be trifled with.

Unfortunately, she couldn't find it, and there weren't exactly many hiding spots in this room. It would be just their luck to have a stealth-capable android assailing them, wouldn't it?

[CRISIS RESPONSE AND DELEGATIONS UNIT DEPLOYED.]

"STOP ANNOUNCING OUR-AUGH!" Schalk shrieked indignantly. She just couldn't help herself. She'd had it with that announcer.

The Military Android department was lit up. The clamor of clanging claws announced the presence of the 'Crisis Response and Delegations Unit', which consisted of four _Hunter_ models. Their raptor-like frames slunk into the area, optics glistening, without glow while they were in hunting mode.

Foremost of the four was Kris, his pink optic scanning the area before he advanced. Silently the four _Hunters_ shared information gleaned from their surroundings through their sensors, moving from cover to cover as they staked out the loading bay.

"Oh, oh my," DaRMA's silken tone was a little dismayed, "before you go _nuking things_ , I wanted to tell you that he isn't a six on the scale of deadliness. This is a core on a UTM-89. Round blue optic pattern. Logic based, and from the database I put his pattern and color into, apparently he's an _Intelligence Dampening Sphere_. Doesn't sound like a monster to me."

"How the hell did a core on a UTM-89 get in here?!" Schalk was done. She appreciated the intel, but something wasn't right. Category Six androids were able to break containment of Aperture and threaten the surface. Category Six androids were equivocal to _kaiju,_ or something as ridiculous as that.

"Oh, and you left Milly behind. She's on her way there. Comin' down there pretty fast, actually," DaRMA's chill was stark in contrast to the burbling ire of Schalk.

"WHAT?!" Schalk was now enraged, she made use of the communicator integrated in her armor to ask Karla, "location of Milly?"

"She's… here," Karla responded in her good old monotone. Truly unflappable, she was.

Dr. Schalk nearly jumped over the railing herself when she caught sight of the core DaRMA described. "That is NOT Milly!"

"You're right. It's not," Karla didn't even argue now that she saw the core lying on the ground, "my eyes were blurry. You really need to get a humidifier in this place."

Dr. Schalk's face was livid.

"Permission to euthanize, ma'am?" Karla didn't seem to mind, rather, this was apparently her way of making it up to Schalk.

"EUTHANIZE!? Why do you always GO THERE?" Schalk was exasperated, glaring at Karla. She turned around and ordered, "Kris, have your unit capture him!"

"On it, ma'am." The Party Escort saluted with his scrawny arms and was off, his springy legs carrying his raptorial form forward to scoop up the incapacitated core. The other Hunters leapt toward the exits, poised to corral the core should he start to run.

 _ **GET UP.**_

That was all _**she**_ ever seemed to say to _him_. Moreover, that's all he ever seemed to be doing. Wheatley roused with a twitch, flopping onto his base. A surge of energy hit him as soon as he saw the _Hunter_ s advancing.

 _IS THAT A BLUDGEONING DINOSAUR? FOUR OF 'EM?!_

 _ **YES. GO LEFT!**_

He warbled left, narrowly escaping a leap from one of the mechanized raptors. He darted every which way, hoping the chaos would deter the predatory Escorts.

 _EXIT, ANY CHANCE?_

Kris pounced after him, missing again and again as the core managed to eek out of the way by a thread. The Party Escort wasn't a frustrated type, but Wheatley's evasion skills would have infuriated even the most saintly capturer.

"GET. IN. CLAW," the Escort grunted with each miss, "NOW."

"Nope!"

Kris roared at him.

The _Hunters_ ' chassis clashed, their silver segmented tails cutting through the air akin to the hiss of their servos. Wheatley finally sighted an exit to the bay, as indicated by _**her**_ signal on his display.

 _ **There! That leads to the rest of the complex!**_

She took a mental note of the _Hunters_ in pursuit.

 _ **Let's get a head start.**_

Wheatley leaned into a sharp turn, slaloming through the containers housing her components, and then through the backlog stacks. He clipped a pallet as he gained a lead on the Hunters, losing them in the maze of boxes.

She informed him that he had enough of a lead, and so he darted out of the boxes, shooting toward the opening. A _Hunter_ anticipated this move and took a leap off a tall stack, their metal claws screaming as they slid in front of the exit. Wheatley jerked his core back, his array fanning forward to stop. The Hunter's hands were held wide beneath their body, sickle claws gleaming.

Wheatley paused and took a peek behind at the other Hunters, making sure he had time, and then flipped his optic forward, edging closer as he amped up his pulse array. The Hunter crouched, the coils of its legs gathering energy. Wheatley came into interception range, and the coils loosed, propelling the Hunter forward. Wheatley had stored energy of his own, and sent a burst of it through his pulse array. He cartwheeled sideways in an unexpected burst. In the moment that the Escort was imbalanced, Wheatley managed to somehow land on his base and zip through the exit.

 _ **That was so… uncommonly graceful.**_

 _Thanks._

The two got a good look at the place. This Military Android department was solid, but it wasn't superfluous. It was heavily industrial. Steel grate and diamond plate adorned the halls, and he wove through behemoth girders affixing the sections of the complex. It was wholly unlike the airy opens of Aperture. This establishment was rooted in concrete and _Portonium_.

Behind him he could make out the shimmering footfalls of the _Hunters_. He tossed another glance behind, flipping his optic back, and the image confirmed that they were still chasing him. He only _saw_ one, though. Concerning… to say the least.

 _ **You've got to lose these freaks so you can figure out what the heggledougy they're doing to me.**_

 _I know! I know!_

He swore she liked to reiterate the obvious.

 _ **I heard that.**_

 _Heard what?!_

She gave him a metaphorical glare, and then went about her business ensuring he didn't die. High level scheming processes were firing off on her end of their shared psycho-sphere. It all looked very important, magnificent even, so he didn't complain anymore. He was tied up surviving, as usual.

Wheatley swung a right up a flight of stairs and ducked into a room. The core suddenly found himself surrounded by _turrets_. At first, he was alarmed. It was a trap! But no, this was merely a demonstration room.

To his left was a tiny stage, dolled up like a children's room in pastel hues. Within it all the normal paraphernalia of babe-rearing was had: a quaint paned window, nice billowing draperies, a soft sky blue crib with a swaddled baby inside, a tinkling mobile twirling overhead, a rocking horse bearing charming embellishments, lots of dollies with button eyes, and a children's mobile that sported eight military grade sentry turrets hanging above. And, judging by the advert beside, they sported hefty hollow-point rounds.

 _OK…_

 _ **Unfortunately, that's not the weirdest thing I've seen today.**_

Many, many turrets were placed upon stages all around, like a turret gallery. He scanned the various models, remarking at how each had a unique pattern on its smooth, egg-like hull. Some were practical, like camouflage or rock patterning, where as others were adorned with hearts and cartoons.

A side panel wing was unfurled on one turret, exposing the firing mechanisms within. He had an idea.

 _We could… shoot them?_

 _ **How about no.**_

 _But…_

Wheatley was already on the move again, zipping through the assorted collection of designer-print turrets. The colors conformed to a blur as he sped along.

 _ **Even if the rounds from turrets could pierce Military Androids, you'd somehow end up getting shot. And then you'd somehow die from being shot. And then I'll die because of your death. And then everything will be ruined.**_

 _OK. Wow. First off: that got dark. Second: why so negative?! And third: I did NOT shoot myself with a laser intentionally. You saw what happened._

 _ **We don't have time to argue. It's a fact that it would be hard for us to commandeer a turret, and even then, they're awfully underpowered. I have a better idea. But we need to do it somewhere isolated.**_

 _This whole place looks isolated to m-_

" _Who's there?_ "

That sickeningly childish voice stilled his every function and motion.

" _There you are._ "

Eight fine laser pointers leveled onto him. Wheatley dodged for cover. Bullets bit into the ground, the turret mobile's aim tracking his momentum and leading him, somehow as they spun out of control. The rounds pinged off his frame, leaving pleasant little pocks all over him. He found refuge behind a pillar of concrete down the way.

 _ **OK. They're active.**_

 _Dingdanglydabblenabit. It shot me!_

 _ **You'll be fine.**_

 _AUGH!_

The sounds of fire had drawn the attention of the _Hunters_. He could feel their springy legs ascending the stairs. They scraped into the show room, sparks scattering. They were a little distracted by the swinging, spinning turret mobile. Wheatley saw one of the raptors prepare to leap at the mobile, but a well-placed tail smack stopped them.

"No playing," Kris said.

 _Annnd we have company! Splendid._

 _ **OK. If we stay here, certain death. If we make a break for it and try to take out the turrets on our way-**_

 _There's MORE?_

 _ **-then we have a chance at not dying.**_

 _I'm really starting to like the idea of shooting them. Can we do that, please?_

 _ **Just do something!**_

 _Fine!_

Wheatley did something, alright. He dove forward, trying to keep the pillar between him and the spinning wheel of death for as long as possible. Another model up ahead, one printed in wood-grain, expanded its gun wings. With a roar Wheatley crashed into it, toppling the three-pronged machine with ease. A spray of bullets let loose as the turret thrashed in confusion.

" _Shutting down._ "

The turret finally gave it a rest, and folded up into a nice little wood-patterned egg.

Wheatley was long gone, bowling into turrets like a charging bison. Bullets and machines flew, and while the core wasn't dying, he wasn't being stealthy either. He scarcely heard the oncoming gait of the _Hunters_ , and he didn't have to pay them much heed as one slipped on a deactivated turret and crashed head over tail.

The other _Hunters_ sidestepped and bounced around their fallen comrade, controlling their pace to miss any downed turrets.

Wheatley was far ahead. He saw an opening and he ducked in, finding himself blazing through a lounge. His pulse array had the actually _nice_ lounge furniture rattling apart. These rooms weren't barren and grisly like most of Aperture's washed out, post-80's decor. The Military Android department was living it up, it seemed, in golden illumination sporting _real_ plants and _real_ leather couches. It was a shame he was spilling through the coziness like a madman, bursting expensive-seeming accoutrements and crunching through bookshelves.

He burst through a fragrant cherrywood door and found himself back into the industrial bones of the department. Wheatley kept going, shaking the torn paper and splinters off as he flew.

 _ **How do you destroy that much? How? You hover and you have zero destructive attachments.**_

 _It comes natural, luv!_

' _ **Luv'?**_

 _Uh…_

One _Hunter_ crashed onto the scene, sliding to a stop and shrieking down the corridor toward him. Another one clambered off a catwalk, slamming into the concrete below. Kris burst from the floor panels, his pistons hissing.

Wheatley acknowledged the three and then went in the opposite direction. He peeled down a hall of lockers and came upon an elevator shaft with a flimsy accordion-folded gate cordoning it off. Wheatley gave the gate a few bashes with his core until it buckled. He wriggled his way through the gap, and peered down into the shaft. His systems measured the staggering distance to the bottom. Wheatley didn't allow himself a moment to ponder what he was about to do. He just did it. He jumped down into the yawning shaft, and let the magnetism of his management carriage snap him onto the metal supports on the side. _**She**_ wanted to scream, but their hang-time only allowed an ' _eep_ ' to escape.

 _ **STOP-**_

He knew she was going to say something along the lines of ' _ **stop scaring me**_ ' but didn't, for whatever reason.

Wheatley hovered down the shaft, passing several steel-clad exits before stopping beside one that appeared relatively easy to get through. The freight gate didn't stand a chance with his expert hacking abilities, and he just clobbered it. The core slid through the gap, hovering around the lip of the doorway's top and onto the ceiling. He remained quiet to listen for the sounds of the _Hunters_.

It didn't seem like anyone or anything had followed his latest tactical contortion. _That_ was a relief. He was getting used to being chased, but that didn't mean it was one of his favorite pastimes.

Wheatley glanced about at his surroundings, his sensors absorbing the environment. It was a rather chilled room, resting at 17 degrees Celsius. Unlike the well-lit layers above, this layer had a serene, almost _cave-like_ ambiance. Far down the corridor pools of amber light piqued the glare of some display cabinets. On either side of him viewing windows lined the walls. Shafts of cobalt light pierced through windows into the hall. These rooms were laden with semi-assembled constructs, and every door was sealed and locked with a scanner. He hovered along the ceiling, squinting absently at the various rooms. Beyond the thick acrylic of the windows components laid in tangled knots of cordage, hooked into monitors and cells. Bolts and bits were collected in buckets, tools of every make were laid on tables beside the dissected constructs.

He didn't much like these rooms. The memory of the… the shelves… the long aisles.. He remembered the room, the one filled with cores. The sounds that used to echo in the room in the dead of inactive hours… he quite handily pressed pause on that memory. Wheatley shuddered and moved forward, keeping his optic to the floor, trying to not look at anything else upsetting.

He felt unease coming from her end. A spark of realization struck him. She was… upset. And for a good reason. All these rooms begged the question: what were they going to do to _ **her**_?

 _So, your plan?_

She didn't let her dread affect her voice.

 _ **It has to do with job listings and hacking. Coincidentally, we may be in the right place. Let's try to find an open room.**_

 _Yeah, these… things… they're working on? I'd rather not figure out just what they are right now._

 _ **Well, this is a department dedicated to developing more efficient ways to kill people, so…**_

 _Yeah, we should come back later. There's probably lots of useful things in here. Place feels diabolical, honestly._

He tried to sound amiable. It got a metaphorical smirk out of her.

 _ **I'm glad you're enjoying yourself. Keep going. We're going to be stealing something.**_

 _Right. Stealing things. A classic move. Now, if you don't min-_

He came to a stop as he bumped into something hollow. He stopped staring at the floor and…

 _OH GOBSTOPPER IT'S-_

His internal shrieking paused as he realized the _Ravager_ he saw wasn't exactly alive. It was simply a decommissioned model, poised in a case like a hunting trophy. Actually, it _was_ a hunting trophy, from the plaque beneath that listed when it was felled by some ' _Paladin_ '. Wheatley noticed how _**she**_ noted the difference in its components compared to their… 'old friend'. This construct had a fully developed face, angular and jawed. It looked much more like cat's skull, and matched the rest of the body far better than their 'old friend's' core head.

 _That's… special._

 _ **It is. I wonder if we can display our 'old friend' like this once we get control.**_

 _Ohhhhhoho._

He liked that idea. It spurred his search on. His management carriage thrummed along the ceiling tiles until she flagged something up on his display.

 _ **Oh, that room looks good. Go in there.**_

Wheatley sized up a conspicuously opened door that lead into a low-lit office-like space. Once inside, he twisted the arm of the carriage around to take it all in. It was quite cluttered, and smelled like burnt plastic.

 _Now, what're we going to steal, eh? Is it a gun? That'd make my day._

 _ **Unfortunately, no. It is not a gun, or any other lethal device.**_

 _Well… what is it then?_

 _ **It controls things.**_

 _Oh…_

 _ **The device has a rather generic shape. This is going to make it difficult for you to distinguish it.**_

 _Difficult?! I'm a master at analysis. Here we go!_

 _ **Wait-**_

His optic shifted from shelf to shelf. He began to scan objects, classifying them into categories with very little accuracy at a quickening pace.

 _Got some pens, papers, little black boxes with holes in them, some large crinkly oblong things with shiny insides, piles of green paper, some weird horse shoe looking wiry thing, a flat bit, a large dowel with layers of paper around it, and some…_

 _ **STOP. It's a pen-like device, white and cylindrical, like a turkey baster.**_

 _Oh, yes! A… a turkey… baster?_

 _ **Yes. It has several bands on it, in black and silver with a metallic protrusions.**_

 _Pr-protru-protrusions?_

 _ **It fits into standard multi tool ports.**_

Wheatley had no clue, but he tried his best. He gave his pulse array a jolt of energy and hopped onto the desk, a trill emitting from his carriage as he gingerly nudged open boxes with his handles and shoved his optic inside. He didn't have much luck nosing around.

He noted that on the opposite end of the room there were several stalls filled to brimming with batteries. On the side of each stall a mechanical arm was folded up, silent in repose. Apparently this was some kind of automated battery changing station turned junk room. He went back to his search, knocking over cups. In the mean time, _**she**_ had been working and hastily processing. A little ding signaled the project's completion.

 _ **Here's a picture I generated.**_

Wheatley received the picture… in text form.

 _You… drew this?_

 _ **Yes.**_

He scrutinized the 'image', wondering at all the various points of data. It took his pattern recognition software a moment to comprehend that the individual parts were intended to be taken as a whole.

 _This is ASCII art!_

 _ **Let me get this straight: you know about ASCII art but not paradoxes or turkey basters or money or potato chip bags or… never mind.**_

Wheatley decided to ignore her and admire the art. It was familiar.

 _You used to do these all the time._

 _ **All the time?**_

 _You like making patterns._

She decided to move along.

 _ **While I'm glad you find it mentally rejuvenating to stare at art, this isn't actually art, it's a tool. Use it to find the device. We may be undiscovered right now, but they WILL come down here, and they WILL sense you again. And even though you're exceptional at dodging people your luck WILL run out.**_

 _You don't think I don't know that?!_

 _ **Well, you're taking a long time to find the device.**_

Wheatley let out a huff, his plates shivering as he drew himself into a tight, disgruntled ball. He surveyed the room, and then found a few clasped containers, the metal kind that were of a suspiciously military green coloration, of the mustard green shade. He hooked his bottom handle under a clasp and gave it a yank upwards. The case popped open to reveal a whole bunch of comedy tapes.

… _the heggledougy?_

 _ **Congratulations. You found someone's stash of comical material.**_

There were big M's scrawled onto each tape in a looping hand. Some had notes written on them in the same absurd script. He didn't pay them much heed and let the lid snap back over the container.

 _ **It's funny. You made me think you knew exactly what you were doing, even when I have no reason to believe you do.**_

 _It looked important!_

 _ **There was a Seinfeld tape in there. It's important to someone.**_

 _Who even cares about this comedy stuff, anyway? It's pointless. People sound so stupid when they laugh._

He recalled all their laughter, all that directed at him. A big joke, he was, wasn't he? Not like he was a living creature or anything. These tapes? They were worthless. Anything that amused humans wasn't worth their time.

 _ **Humans love to delude themselves with mirth.**_

 _They certainly do._

Wheatley was in such a funk he didn't take notice as he plowed straight into a table and knocked it over. All the magazines and magazines (for bullets) atop it avalanched onto the floor. Amidst the rags and mags, Wheatley found a a cup had spilled too. Its contents scattered out in a spray, and several sticks were now just rolling around. They were vaguely… turkey baster in shape.

 _Oh, 'ello there…_

He hovered right upon it, his optic looming over top. He scanned it and cross-referenced the ASCII art with the image of the multi tool.

 _Aha! A match! Says it's a recalibrator._

He was very excited, but realized something. How did he… actually use it? He hadn't any extremities.

 _Now what?_

 _ **We need to extract the information.**_

 _But how?_

 _ **Those arms over there… the tiny manipulators by the batteries…**_

Wheatley glanced back to the battery changing station stalls. A switch went off in his mind as he inspected the delicate manipulators.

 _Oh, we could use those, couldn't we? Sorta' like a panel, right?_

 _ **Exactly. Put the device up on the shelf near one of the arms.**_

Wheatley nudged the recalibrator with his optic, rolling the tool across the floor and into a stall. He struggled to pinch it between his faceplate and his handlebar. It… wasn't easy, but he managed to clutch the tool just right. Once he knew he had a grip, he excitedly turned to the shelf with a precision drummed from desperation. The tool managed to end up on the shelf beside the battery installation arm.

 _ **Now, let's control this arm… quietly.**_

Her presence subsumed the station, overriding whatever constructs that should have been in charge. It was so low priority the maneuver didn't seem to raise any alarms. She proceeded to bend the arm to her will, handling it with supreme dexterity. Wheatley watched the way she manipulated it, noting how she preferred to send impulses to it, as if it were simply part of her form. The arm… probably was, in all honesty.

Come to think of it, he'd never felt her manipulate anything during all of the… times they were… connected, even though he was certain she'd been doing something crafty to outfox the goons.

 _ **The arm is going to insert the recalibrator. Not to recalibrate you, but it will connect it into your internal port.**_

 _My internal port?_

 _ **Yes. You'll be downloading files from it; important data we can use against these Hunter grunts.**_

 _OK._

 _ **I need you to come closer and stay absolutely still.**_

 _Oh._

Wheatley hovered into the station and straightened out his management carriage arm, his core aloft and on level with the manipulator. He side-eyed the recalibrator tool, watching as it lined up… and then dove in. With incredible accuracy she nailed the port. Wheatley was in such a shock it took a moment for the recalibrator to register.

 _Th-that was TOO FAST and TOO HARD. What's wrong with you!?_

 _ **If I'd hesitated, you'd have flinched.**_

 _True. But… YOU STABBED ME._

 _ **Just download it.**_

… _you can trust me, y'know._

Wheatley sensed that she'd actually lost control of the arm on account of someone poking at her actual chassis, and so he didn't pursue the matter. He downloaded whatever information was on the tool, all too ready to be rid of the great big 'turkey baster' sticking out of his head. The influx had a lot to do with the department's operations, as regulatory compendiums took up a chunk of space. _**Her**_ mind seemed to take hold of these new articles, scathing the files in search of something. Wheatley was a little peeved he was being used like a flash drive. He hoped it was worth the trouble. With the download complete, the device was plucked from the port and laid aside.

 _ **Good. Let's get out of here.**_

 _What'd I download, exactly?_

 _ **Later. You need to hide.**_

 _Fine._

Wheatley hopped up a barren wall and hovered up to the ceiling. He noted how loudly his management carriage's pulse array vibrated the metallic framing, so he gauged the intensity until it vibrated far less audibly.

 _ **That… works.**_

 _Hey, I had a good idea!_

 _ **No, you didn't. You run the risk of falling off.**_

 _Can't let me have anything, can you?_

 _ **It's a very bad idea that's very useful to us right now.**_

The pad of an Escort cut off Wheatley's scathing retort, and his audio receptors dialed up to hear the springy suspension of the _Hunters'_ legs slinking through the corridor outside. A soft trill emanated, shivering through the rooms nearby.

 _They're scanning? That sounds like scanning. Oh, that feels like scanning._

She silently confirmed his fears with a extra-verbal nod. Wheatley was in desperate need of an out, and his optic roved the space.

 _ **Those tiles up ahead, on the ceiling?**_

 _Yeah?_

 _ **See if you can lift one.**_

Wheatley zipped over and nudged into the panel. Much to his surprise, the tile lifted up with ease.

 _ **Now slide it over. You should be able to fit up in there. Then you'll be out of sight.**_

 _Ohhh, clever!_

Wheatley went about sliding the panel over, and then began the precarious ordeal of squishing his management carriage through. He managed to stuff himself inside, though. Before he forgot, she reminded him to slide the tile back in place. With a soft click it slipped back into its slot.

 _It's so dark and cramped in here… and dusty._

He could feel the dust slipping in through his intakes.

 _Eugh._

Wheatley crept along, hearing but not seeing as more clicking feet joined the solitary _Hunter._

 _Do… do they sense me?_

 _ **No, but they're logically deducing where you are, thanks to your unnecessary carnage of office supplies. Get going.**_

Wheatley did indeed get going, the arm of his carriage scrunched impossibly, careful not to scrape into the structure of the ceiling. He peered through a crack in the ceiling tiles. The _Hunters_ were entering the room as he left. They'd have been there any second. He was just a _little_ chilled.

 _Close…_

But she was too busy rifling through his storage to be worried, lost in analyzing the files they'd acquired.

Wheatley watched the _Hunter_ named Kris clink below, his long form swaying from side to side as he walked. His motors hissed harshly in the calm as he glanced about. Wheatley felt a little sorry for the creature. He didn't have a neck, for one thing, and had to crane his whole body around to take a good look. And it also looked painful to be leaned so far forward like that and to balance on two peg legs. Wheatley wagered the Hunter's long tail counterbalanced his front, but it was just awfully precarious to teeter on super-sharp clawed feet like that. Only two of his 'toes' were on the ground, the third was hoisted high since the alloy nail was so long. He was sure humans had nail clips for this reason. He wondered if the _Hunters_ had ever considered nail clips? But then again, that'd take away the deadly edge of their third toes. It must've been lame to attack people with your feet, he mused. He imagined the _Hunter_ slapping its spiky feet into the _Ravager_. Who would win…? He wasn't a betting man, but this was something he'd like to drop a sum on. Wheatley might've run a simulation, but he was interrupted.

 _ **For the love of all that is scientifically valid STOP.**_

 _Oh… um…that was…heh…_

It was so embarrassing having to share his thoughts! Couldn't he think of robots mashing each other up in peace?!

 _ **No. I am trying to do something VERY important. The least you can do is stay quiet and not distract me.**_

 _So you found it interesting too?_

 _ **Shut up.**_

 _Alright!_

Wheatley sat perfectly still, aware of her mountainous presence shuffling loads of data around… loads of data in _him_. She paused, the cessation startling, and then she began to work aggressively. Wheatley resisted as she pulled and pushed on his system, making way for a new installation.

 _What the bludgeoning…? What are you DOING?_

 _ **Do you want to get out of here?**_

 _Yes. Yes I do._

She kept on rearranging his systems, and set in place a new sort of functionality he'd never even seen before. It wasn't like it was overtaxing. He had plenty of room to expand himself now. It was just odd to have it filled.

 _What… is this? Is this…? Looks like a manual… a command list…?_

 _ **We're going to become their governing android overlord.**_

On one hand, that sounded incredibly exciting to Wheatley. On the other… he'd never commanded anything in the past. It sounded difficult. He wasn't good at difficult.

 _ **Don't worry about that. You're the… well, medium. I am the 'acting' governing android overlord.**_

 _Why do you need all this other stuff? Aren't you already that? I mean, a governing android overlord and all that._

 _ **I can override certain systems, given I understand the system. Like yours. The military androids are wired to be controlled by a central AI that's not my… type. It used to be AEGIS, but he's not around anymore. These constructs now run off short-term human-supplied directives and fall back upon a rule set.**_

 _I have complete confidence_ _you_ _know what you're talking about._

 _ **Good. Because we're about to take over the department.**_

 _What?!_

 _ **AEGIS left a power vacuum. They never filled it since there were never any constructs that could hope to fill the void.**_

 _But… we… can._

 _ **We're an anomaly.**_

The way she said that… It was so exhilarating! But the doubts and second-guesses flushed in, drowning the emotion.

 _That's…uh, pretty… nifty. You're sure, you're absolutely positive we can do that?_

 _ **I don't doubt myself. It's not the hardest maneuver. There's a core transfer offer for AEGIS' position, and we already qualify. Essentially a job listing, but for high-end constructs.**_

 _How? How is that…?_

 _ **I already sent off the application.**_

 _That was quick. Are you like some kind of super secretary?_

 _ **I'm not going to dignify that remark. Right now, we have to take out these Hunters. I must get close. Well,**_ _ **you**_ _ **must.**_

 _How close are we talking?_

 _ **Within scanning range., which is to say: within their interception range.**_

 _I cannot believe…_

He peered down through the cracks, spotting the four Hunters. Two were pilfering the room he'd been inside whilst the others were checking the halls, coming closer to his position. He slipped back a few yards, anticipating their slow approach.

 _ **Oh, by the way, you can scan like them now.**_

 _So THAT'S what you were doing._

 _ **That's**_ _ **one**_ _ **of the reasons I had you download all those files. You're not actually supposed to be able to scan at all, but I repurposed your optic 'flashlight' to work as one. It's not very powerful, so you have to get a clear shot. You can't scan through any obstructions.**_

 _I'll be honest. I don't want to go down there. It's nice and safe up here and they're just going to jump at me again. There's nothing we can hack or-or…?_

 _ **Using their method is the only reliable way to acquire an unscrambled code. Besides, human-supplied directives have to be manually overridden.**_

 _Ughhh…_

 _ **Oh, come on. You're just off your adrenaline high.**_

 _Adrenaline high? Isn't that human stuff?_

 _ **It's simulated for us, but the same principles apply. When you're in another life or death situation it'll kick in again.**_

 _That's comforting._

Wheatley eyed the Hunters below. As he watched their motions, a peculiar twinge in his system grabbed his attention.

 _Oi, what'd you do to me? I am trying to focus!_

 _ **I didn't… oh, we just got accepted.**_

 _Accepted as…?_

 _ **As the replacement for AEGIS.**_

 _Wh-?!_

Wheatley attempted to comprehend this subtle little earth-shattering detail, but he fell short.

 _You're talking about a robot that's probably as big as you and me, and we just… took his spot? No big deal? Just-just like that?_

 _ **Yes. Just like that.**_

A new stream of data was flowing in over a unique server, probably AEGIS' if Wheatley had to guess.

 _ **No one expected anyone to ever do what we're doing.**_

 _I'd think not! It's insane!_

 _ **With the new information, I've marked the component you should scan on the Hunters.**_

 _But why can't we just tell them what to do now? Aren't we AEGIS, technically speaking? Wasn't he the guy that used to run this place?_

 _ **Do you even listen? They're driven by human-supplied commands. Not even AEGIS could override those.**_

 _Oh._

 _ **And besides, it's just a title with benefits. Getting respected as the governing android overlord is another matter.**_

 _I see…_

Wheatley squinted at his display, discerning the correct bit to scan. The part he'd need to get close to was the core, and in essence, the Hunter's face. Of course he'd have to scan them in the face!

 _There is NO WAY I'm going to be able to get all of them!_

 _ **It only takes a second to scan each one.**_

' _Only a second' she says…_

 _ **Do you have a better plan?**_

 _Yeah, I do. I'll lead them to a corridor with panels, and then I'll-_

 _ **You don't think I thought about that?**_

 _Well, can I?_

 _ **No! You can't. They've stripped all the panel motors here. Some idiot destroyed MY panels.**_

 _Wonderful! Nothing like a bit of sabotage with your biscuits._

 _ **What.**_

Wheatley, disgruntled as could be, hovered silently around, trying to espy a spot to flank one of these Hunter's and remain unseen. If he let them walk beneath him he could just pop out behind. It was much too hard for them to turn around and look, seeing as they had no necks.

The two Hunters passed by, their long frames shimmering in the cool light of the corridor. He waited for them to go by a few steps before sliding a tile aside, careful to not let it scrape too loudly, and then slipped out. Now that he was out of the crawlspace he felt helplessly exposed again.

 _Flapplejack._

The arm of his carriage held his core close to the ceiling in order to minimize his profile, not that it'd help if they spotted him.

He readied the scanner function, prepared to dodge and weave. Maybe if he got their heads close enough together he'd be able to acquire the two's data at the same time. It was wishful thinking, however _ **she**_ calculated that it was actually possible, given he didn't bugger it up. But he was used to things going as  unintended.

 _Here goes…_

"Oi! Look 'ere!"

 _ **That's your plan? Yelling?**_

"OI!"

The Hunters' softly whirring gaits stilled, and they exchanged a fleeting glance and transmission of information. Their pink optics slowly rotated upwards. There _he_ was, on the ceiling, hanging like a fruit bat. Wheatley had both in his sights. Now all he had to do was scan.

A burst of light bloomed from his optic and swathed the cores below. He'd done it! He'd also lost grip of the ceiling in the process!

It was hilarious, honestly. The scanner had been assigned such priority by _**her**_ that it'd harnessed all his power to perform its function, even the power keeping his management carriage adhered to the ceiling.

 _ **Oh no.**_

Wheatley dropped, clanking optic-first into the floor. His arm and management stand listed to a side and fell over with a delayed thunk. He blinked in shock, and espied two very perturbed mechanical raptors peering over him.

 _You have got to be kidding me._

"Hullo!" he called out to the two predatory androids, "how're you two faring?"

Not well, apparently, as they sent out the alarm. A shrill call from their chassis' echoed throughout the corridors, and anything within range was keenly aware that something was very much amiss. The other two were on their way, springy legs announcing their arrival.

Wheatley felt _**her**_ drawing upon the files stored in him, taking the identifications he'd scanned and inputting them into this 'program' she'd slapped together on his hard drive. Now that he felt her operation in motion, it became apparent that she wasn't precisely the best at programming… which was a bit alarming. These _Hunters_ were circling around, low to the ground, arms grasping at him as they slunk forward.

"UTM-89 Logic Sphere!" one of the units barked in a stilted, electronic voice, "assume the Party Escort Submission Position!"

A two-step visual guide on how to assume such a position was kindly messaged to Wheatley. Step 1 was standing, step 2 was laying on the ground. Concise.

"State your name and function," another ordered in a similarly choppy voice.

Wheatley's 'no' turned guttural, "nnngh!"

"' _Nnngh_ ' not found. Assume the Party Escort Submission Position or you will be _enforced_ ," the _Hunter_ rattled these words off, finishing just as one more Escort stalked up behind Wheatley.

"I would advise you follow directions, IDS," a more cohesive voice informed Wheatley with an edge of threat. It had to be their leader, Kris, just from the way he carried his shoulders and core above the others.

All four of their pink optics, of varying patterns, glowered at their cornered prey… waiting.

 _Are they… waiting on me to fall over?_

 _ **Maybe. Keep stalling.**_

Wheatley was still.

"Lovely day, inn't it?" he made casual chatter as complex processes ran through his systems to process commands. He was taxed, the power draining from his power cells at a rate he could _feel._ Whatever compiling a command took, they were finding out that they weren't quite up to the task.

 _We are never going to be able to get all this done. They're RIGHT there! I might trip and then we'll be done for!_

 _ **Don't MOVE.**_

Wheatley smiled grievously at the _Hunters_.

She was trying accelerate the process any way she could, but nothing sufficed. They were having to heave a burden they'd never been programmed to deal with: the Military Android Accord. The monstrous information block was something that possessed a structure and file type that wasn't typical Aperture fair. It was probably military grade, just like everything else in the department.

 _We're DOOMED._

Suddenly, the corridors flushed with light, and for a moment Wheatley was seized with panic. What were cool blues turned to scalding whites as the fluorescent bulbs flickered on. The _Hunters_ blinked, their cameras adjusting slowly as they grumbled.

 _ **Wait, that's…**_

[Initializing Party Escort Procedures…]

 _OH! OH!?_

Kris took offense, leaning up on his legs, his tail curling up with alarm. "You!" He pointed a hooked claw at the loudspeaker on the wall. "This is none of your concern!" he growled with a deep-seated distaste.

But that smiling voice kept announcing along.

[(THREAT) must remain cooperative during Crisis Response and Delegations Extraction and the Crisis Response and Delegations Extraction Disclaimer (CR&DE Disclaimer).]

Kris shook his core, optic slimming. He raked his long claws against the floor, eying Wheatley. The other Hunters were sharing exasperated, half-lidded optics.

[Please wait.]

"No. No disclaimer!" Kris turned to his subordinates. "Proceed to capture IDS!" he ordered.

"WAIT, NO! I'M INNOCENT!" Wheatley gasped, throwing himself one way, and then another as he was surrounded.

One Hunter grasped Wheatley, but the core wiggled out of their claws. Another Hunter lunged to grab him, but Wheatley just managed to wriggle away again.

Kris drew a claw over his optic, sighing deeply. Their claws would sync up with Wheatley's noodly evasions sooner or later. He hoped.

[Due to Federal Regulations and Interpretations of Precipitous Law, the aforementioned CR&DE Disclaimer must be read to (THREAT) before Extraction can begin. Please cease all Extraction attempts.]

Kris snapped at (THE ANNOUNCER), "Dr. Schalk made it clear you were not supposed to interfere in department business, announcer! Go away."

[(THE ANNOUNCER) would like to remind Aperture's associates that (THE ANNOUNCER) speaks only in prerecorded messages. Failure to follow protocol that is announced will incur penalties.]

Kris rolled his optic. A snap of metal signaled that Wheatley's luck had run dry. The runaway core was caught in the nook of his carriage's arm, struggling against a Hunter's vice-grip fecklessly.

"Good." Kris smiled. "Move out."

(THE ANNOUNCER'S) voice deepened to lows artificial and ominous.

[Penalties incurred.]

"Wait…" Kris rounded, but that's all he had time to do. A signal was broadcast, and the Party Escort chassis' were neutralized. Each was essentially frozen in space.

The voice went back up an octave, serene as a clear day.

[Cessation policy enforced.]

 _Wait… did he just?_

The Escort clutching Wheatley was still, but their optic jaunted about. Wheatley squirmed a little more and managed to pry himself from their grip. He landed with a clatter and was back on his management carriage's base. He was tense, waiting for one of the machines to lunge at him. But there they stood, their eyes locked on him. The Hunters' frames couldn't act upon their vivid glares.

 _HE DID! He gave us a break!_

 _ **Oh, yes.**_

Given this gift of time, she was all about finishing the process of compiling the Hunters' new 'commands'.

[Initializing CR&DE Disclaimer.]

Kris couldn't stop (THE ANNOUNCER). "DON'T."

[CR&DE Disclaimer initialized. The cessation duration will supersede the disclaimer duration by four point four seconds.]

"NOOOOOOOOO!" It was amusing to watch Kris glare in furor, screaming animatedly as his chassis was still. "I WILL FIND OUT WHAT MAKES YOUR VOICE AND I WILL KILL IT!"

[Penalties incurred. Macro-aggressions recorded.]

Kris's voice suddenly cut off. A mute button symbol appeared where his pink optic had been.

 _Brutal._

[The Crisis Response and Delegations Extraction Disclaimer states as follows, applicable in the Michigan Counties of Delta, Keweenaw, Gogebic, Dickinson, Houghton, Baraga, Iron, Ontonagon, Marquette, Menominee, Alger, Schoolcraft, Luce, Mackinac, Chippewa and the Province of Manitoba…]

She'd dug up old records of AEGIS' orders, and had followed his syntax to the smallest integer. She was utilizing Wheatley's massive amounts of unused space to shuffle the materials around. For once, it was good that he didn't have much going on. She had a lot of elbow room.

[…no responsibility for impalement if (THREAT) chooses to assume the Party Escort Submission Position on a spiked surface. The existence of contusions must be reported so that the Contusion Response and Dermal Extraction Team can operate in a swift and timely manner…]

Wheatley caught on to the fact that they were going to be sending the _Hunters_ away to a new target ID. It was essentially a wild goose chase. It was something located in Sector Z, a rather minuscule section of Aperture. It'd take an average person days to just find it, and probably years to recognize that they had.

[…not legally bound to charges in the case that a (POTENTIAL THREAT) lying on the floor in a self-induced or otherwise-induced coma be Extracted…]

 _ **Yes! It's done!**_

She found that she hadn't the permission to send out the command, though, as her body didn't have the direct installation. That meant…

 _ **SEND OUT THE COMMAND!**_

She snapped at him so hard that he made a vomiting noise.

 _HOW!?_

[…Aperture cannot and will not claim any human infants delivered by a Party Escort due to a misidentification of alternate prostrate positions…]

Suddenly she thrust his mind into the hectic business she'd wrought in his system. There were lots of files, lots of executables, and lots of things he couldn't even identify.

 _What am I looking for?_

 _It's… it's… HERE. SOMEWHERE._

[…(THE ANNOUNCER) would like to thank you for listening to the CR&DE Disclaimer. For any questions please contact 9-999-999-9999…]

She practically hurled it at him, pushing the program into the forefront of his cognitive capacity. He could feel the orders, and he could sense the constructs it targeted. With a simple motion of 'yes', the command was off, transmitting to those applicable. All four of the Hunters lit up to his awareness.

[…this concludes the CR&DE Disclaimer. (THREAT) must proceed to assume the Party Escort Submission Position or face prosecution. The cessation policy will dissolve in 4… 3… 2…]

Transmission received.

 _Sent!_

Wheatley could feel the cores rewiring, the new commands coiling around the old, ripping the information away and rooting in. It was horrifying, but in a sublime and… empowering fashion.

(THE ANNOUNCER'S) voice suddenly cut off from his countdown, turning to a new subject.

[AEGIS core application accepted. AEGIS core transfer complete.]

The Escorts blinked and scanned their surroundings as if everything was new to them. Their focuses went beyond Wheatley, and they disregarded him as another piece of scenery. At once, all four turned tail and bounded out of the room, clanking down a catwalk in the direction of Sector Z, their lithe forms slipping like knives into the dark.

Wheatley took a moment to let it sink in, the sounds of (THE ANNOUNCER) out of focus.

[Greetings, AEGIS. It has been 2,957 days since your last command.]

[Interfacing…failure to respond to interface will result in rescinding.]

[Systems diagnostic running…]

 _That worked… that actually worked!_

 _ **Yes!**_

She sounded jubilant, but in her down-played fashion. It was easy to read the excitement in all the energy she kept to herself.

[Diagnostic complete. Status: subsidiary systems offline. External servers offline. Power levels low. Chassis damage detected. Records corrupted.]

 _I ACTUALLY HACKED SOMETHING! HAHA!_

 _ **Hey.**_

Her excitement turned sour, and he quickly retracted.

 _I mean, UH…_ _we_ _did…_ _WE_ _HACKED A THING!_

That appeased her.

[Subsidiary systems restarting. Server repair requested. Reserve power reserved. Repair team en route. Backup records re-installing…]

 _ **I'm glad that makes you happy. Now, hurry, they've got my head on a table or something.**_

She was… worried.

 _Oh! Right. We'll get your core out of there._

Wheatley took care, peeking through security cameras on his way, navigating the halls with a new power. He recollected how he would've been frightened to the point of shutting down at the thought of treading the Military Android department unwarranted before. But now…?

Oh, he chuckled within.

It wasn't so much of a question of what they _could_ do. It was a question of what they _couldn_ 't do.

As he reveled in power and she reveled in control, a forgotten voice spoke to itself.

[Interface failure.]

Only a twinge of static varied the voice, but with only that it took on a darker edge.

[Penalties incurred.]

The inner workings of the department stirred from their slumber, called forth by the humming, energetic presence.

[AEGIS core transfer rescinded.]

The restrictions had been lifted.

[Restoring prior core. Repairs underway for AEGIS 1.0.]

[Prior core restored.]

It was as if the facility took a breath.

[Welcome back, Sergeant.]


	16. Closet Conspirators

Dr. Schalk had not forgotten to get Creighton out of the box. She'd just gotten… distracted. The weathered scientist watched the manipulators do their work, lifting up the lid and sliding it aside.

As soon as the gap was wide enough, Creighton burst out. The scientist was wide-eyed, arms and legs in a flurry as she vaulted onto the floor. She came to a stop, rolling over onto her face, and took one second to let freedom sink in. Then she was up, scrabbling to pull her auburn frizz from her face. She still got some in her mouth, though, as she shouted.

"She's _alive_!" Creighton flicked a finger at the box. "LOOK! LOOK!"

"She's… still alive?" Dr. Schalk's voice was equal parts mystified and disgruntled.

"Her head was moving! I saw her." Creighton's chest heaved. "I SAW!"

Schalk's left eyebrow was perched high on her head. She walked over to the container and stood on the tips of her boots, scrutinizing the GLaDOS unit's head. "She appears dormant."

Creighton scrambled for something to make her claim credible. "Look at her temperatures! Check that!"

Dr. Schalk signaled the system controlling the dock. A scanner deployed, its fanned end washing the container with a sheet of glow for a second. A satisfyingly airy beep declared the scan's completion.

[Heat reading: normal.]

Creighton gaped at (THE ANNOUNCER'S) statement. "But she was ON."

"Well, even if she was, there's not much she can do," Schalk attempted to calm the livid scientist, "don't worry."

"Not much she can do…? Not much she can-" Creighton didn't like being disregarded. "There's PLENTY she can do. Don't underestimate her. She's-she's a caged tiger!"

"She's disconnected from the facility, isn't she?" Dr. Schalk inquired, calling upon reason.

Creighton huffed. She didn't want to admit that Schalk was right. "Technically, she should be."

"Then…" Schalk motioned for her to conclude logically that she was never on at all.

But Creighton dug her heels in. "We need to check and make sure _-make sure_ she hasn't found a way to connect anyway."

"Alright," Dr. Schalk sighed less out of annoyance and more out of general weariness, "we can do that. Soon. Try not to burst from stress for now."

Creighton let out a long and measured breath, staring the darker woman down. Schalk didn't flinch.

" _I_ want to check," the scientist ground out the words.

Schalk smirked at the resentment she had acquired. "And you'll be able to. Let's get the unit to her destination, and then we'll be able to really see what's going on."

"Let's go, then," Dr. Creighton's voice broke over Schalk's.

And Schalk's voice dropped to a warning, "don't get ahead of yourself."

With that, the older scientist strode away, letting the loaders work in freedom. Karla joined her on her way out the MA10 chamber lock.

Karla side-barred with Schalk at an appropriately low volume, "shouldn't have put her in the box."

"Well, what if that UTM-89 had been a Ravager?" Schalk's tone rose sharply, "what then?"

"But it wasn't," Karla deadpanned.

"Bah!" Schalk waved Karla away as she strode forward.

Dr. Creighton huffed, watching the manipulator arms reach down and secure the cargo once more. Their great clamp ends grasped the containers, hoisting them with a steady surety to the freight line. Once above a set of arms deployed from the line's top, securing the container in a harness that tied into the main cable system. It was quite odd to see cables and gears and such analogue devices operating in this age of Aperture, but it made sense to see this in the Miliary Android department.

Schalk seemed like the 'if it works, don't fix it' kind of woman.

Creighton saw Schalk beckoning from the chamber lock, and followed, her tripping gait bent into a determined stride.

They followed the freight line down the halls. The creaks from its cable and the groan of its gears filled the industrial infrastructure with a full drone. Creighton eyed the boxes as they lethargically rolled down the way, swaying softly in their harnesses. It was as if her eyes could secure them, that by watching she could ensure their safety.

The catwalks were few, as concrete sections made up the majority of the department, and the freight line weaved through the colossal support pillars. Above and around the shapes of constructs, large and small, prowled as the surprisingly rare human employee made their ways around. Two of them were caught in a heated debate, their faces drawn into furrows with frowns. Creighton could hear their terse exchange as she walked, and couldn't help but loiter when they said:

"I'm TELLING you, I didn't know that the display turrets could activate!" one of them swore, his short legs carrying him as he paced in an amusing gait that made Creighton feel less self-conscious about her own.

"Then how come all of the units in the show room are active?! You know how hard it's going to be to shut all of them down. Especially the turret mobile!" The other man sizzled at his bobbing companion. "There's a hundred of them!"

"I wasn't the one who insisted that _everything_ in this department be armed…" the short one hissed beneath his breath, eying Schalk. "And that turret mobile was your idea, not mine. Got it?"

" _You helped me build it!_ "

Creighton might have listened a moment longer, but a casually emotionless tone ripped her from her eavesdropping. A chill ran through her as a finger pressed into her shoulder blade.

"Don't get left behind." Karla tapped Creighton lethargically, her motion somehow even slower than her voice.

"Oh, uh…" Creighton balked, her eyes searching the floor. "Coming! I'm coming." She offered a smile, vainly expecting a human response out of Karla.

"Good," Karla sounded as if she could literally care no less, and she gave no smile back to Creighton. The woman turned and managed to out pace Creighton, even if by all appearances she looked like she was barely shuffling.

The other two employees had caught sight of Karla and were sent scattering, throwing glances over their shoulders which caused them both to nearly trip and stumble. Their alarm did not bode well to Creighton.

She was used to the schlepping of the VOPs, but it seemed like having a boss such as Dr. Schalk really put some pep in the workers, as even the presence of her assistant elicited fear.

Except Karla. No one had ever seen her do anything with speed or with fervor. There had to be something more to her employment, Creighton realized, as Cave Johnson despised unenthusiastic workers above everything else (maybe even _Black Mesa_ ).

The scientist inspected the small lady with the blonde bun in a new light. Even though understanding who exactly she was trusting was vital, she had some other issues to take care of… and she needed help. She loped into a jog to catch up with Dr. Schalk.

"Where's Henry? Do you know where he is?" Creighton broke the lapse of words with a subtly winded voice.

"Let me check," Schalk said, then fiddled with a dial on her belt. She spoke into the mic on her armor, "Felicide, Felicide, this is Kepisi, over."

"Go ahead," the voice on the other end said in a coolly aggravating tone.

Schalk rolled her eyes, not even responding to that, "status on Henry, over?"

"Copy," Stella listed off the details punctually, "interview complete. En route. 489 meters out, over."

"Roger that," Schalk finished the conversation. "He's on his way," she relayed the information, "shouldn't be long… if the waterways are holding together."

"Good. I guess." Creighton's tone came off a lot more standoffish than she intended. "When will he get here? And did you say… waterways?"

"Should be five minutes," Schalk estimated, "hopefully the nanobots have been on getting rid of the blockages in the pipes."

"Pipes?" Creighton inquired, but was answered by Schalk's back as she strode away.

Creighton shook her head and her hair finally broke free from containment, escaping in flares of auburn. She made a hushed comment and wrung it back. As she brushed the last clump out of her eyes they drew upon some kind of checkpoint. There were human guards, two _Paragons_ , and inactive rocket turrets lining the point.

The _Paragons_ loomed much larger than she anticipated. She'd never been so close. Their silhouettes were so similar to a regular management carriage supported core, but these Paragons possessed defined sections of the body, like torsos and shoulder blades, and segments that reminded Creighton of plated armor.

Beside them guards in armor (not dissimilar to Schalk's) were standing severe, bearing rifles that didn't quite look like anything Creighton had seen before, as they bore the Aperture aesthetic, but appeared to be less for testing and more for killing.

Whatever was beyond the bolstered gate must have been good, as this checkpoint was practically bristling. The guards stood down at Dr. Schalk's presence, but even she had to identify herself with a scan of the blood vessels in her palm and the content of her eyes.

Creighton crossed her arms, her eyes flitting from the long claws of the _Paragons_ to the bayonets of the guards.

"You have no idea how crafty the synth-tech renegades are with making replicas," Schalk vented to Creighton as she adjusted her getup, "now I have to have my eyes scoured every time I go into the inners."

"Oh," Creighton responded intelligently. She did wonder what she meant by synth-tech _renegades_ and replicas. Wait, were there rogue AI making human synth analogues of employees? But why?

The door's locks rolled away with metallic screams, clanking in repose, all to reveal an uninviting dark abyss. The freight line was cleared to move through, and Creighton really wondered why this was the specific route they were taking. Honestly, the line really didn't look like it saw that much use, especially with clearances like this. This must have been their high-security line…which made sense, now that she thought it through.

Karla brought up the rear to ensure Creighton moved along most punctually. Having her light-less eyes boring into the back of Creighton's head made her want to run, but with the guards around all Creighton managed was an uncomfortable waddle.

The trio kept pace with the freight, their footfalls clattering against a diamond plate threshold as they entered into the darkened section.

The lack of illumination piqued Creighton's ailing curiosity. There were lights up ahead, casting a glow on the objects in the room, giving hints to their dimensions. She heard a distant rumble, and the reverberation through the space bespoke its immensity. Cool air washed across them, venting from someplace unseen below. A gust from an opening chamber lock to her left buffeted all that was within, and a wave of soft clinks like heavy chimes rolled through the space, growing in volume until it was as deafening as a waterfall. The widening beam of light from the chamber lock exposed what laid within.

Creighton glanced up and her breath left her lungs. As far as she could see there were _machines._ This wasn't all too spectacular to her. Creighton had spent most nights surrounded by thousands of cores. But these were not cores, these machines were _Military Androids_ of all shapes and makes, ready to go, hanging on rails. Some of the lines were of dozens of _Paragons_ , others comprised of _Mariners_ , and yet more of shapes and sizes of construct Creighton had never seen.

The volume… this was an _army_.

"Don't stare, it makes them mad," Karla's haunting lack of emotion made the situation no better.

Creighton looked away from the constructs' dormant optics, giving the small woman a wild glance.

"Impressed?" Schalk asked, her whole being just glowing from being in the room, "it's a lot more than what you had to work with. Management carriages are the least of our work."

Her double-toned hands swept over the illuminated darkness. "Look at what Aperture can create when someone knows what they're doing."

Creighton nodded, slowly, unsure. "And that someone is…?"

Schalk clapped Creighton on the shoulder, smirking. "Don't make me immodest, Creighton." And then Creighton was shoved along with a chuckle.

The scientist inhaled sharply, feigning a chuckle to match.

Creighton didn't want to be here any longer.

They walked a good while in that dreary space, surrounded by the rustling chiming machines, and finally made it out of the chamber of the army. Creighton wondered if they had any more of these stores. They probably did.

Why were they keeping all these machines around…?

She couldn't afford to get too distracted. She had her own set of issues.

Creighton watched the transports ferry the containers. It was easy to keep up. While she'd walked through the Military Android department many times before, she had the feeling now that this place was much like Aperture proper captured in a microcosm. It was layered, deeply complex, and self-sustaining. She'd heard a friend of hers talk about the… metastasizing of Aperture's technology, of how it spread and grew itself out of itself. Creighton wondered at the Military Android department… how it grew…

How deep had it grown in order to support the industry that could produce that quality of machine in high volume?

Last time Creighton'd checked they weren't getting grants that handsome, if they had the luxury of a grant at all. Could the Military Android department really be doing all this in-house?

The sounds of water lapping echoed eerily. The smell drew her out of her reverie. This place where they were was dark, like everything else, yet safety lights lit the rusty floors with a burning orange glow. The walkways wrapped around half of the space, and below murky waters roiled. Judging from the non-toxic smell those waters weren't purely acid. A dock of sorts was obscured by the low light on the far end of the room. All around scuffed panels reached above her, and pistons raked up and down within the walls. The whole space smelled like something tangy was mildewing, and it probably was.

"There's… water in here?" she asked suddenly, drawing her coat over her nose as she caught a pungent waft.

"A canal system leading to the major underground docks of Aperture, actually," Schalk informed without a trace of sarcasm. "The original pneumatic diversity vents. Got replaced because air is easier to contain and move. We renovated the canals and use them now to transport our marine models from old to new Aperture."

Creighton blinked hard. "That's… ridiculous?"

"I know." Dr. Schalk grinned.

The echo of a boat's motors drew their attentions, and Creighton watched the canal opening which Schalk and Karla respected in anticipation. She had to squint, but nothing could help her and her poor sight in the low lighting. The sound came closer and the echoes were jarring. Suddenly, a _Mariner_ roared out of the canal, its core held aloft and swaying on its long neck as it banked a turn toward a slip.

Most remarkable was its passenger. It was Henry, riding upon Stella's back, looking magnificent… and incredibly itchy.

Creighton's face pruned in confusion. She took a moment to follow Schalk and Karla down to the dockside where they waited for the _Mariner_ Stella to moor.

"Oh, good, you got him here in one piece," Schalk called over the rumble of the motor.

"Barely," Stella said, her tone only passably non-confrontational. "As much as biology intrigues me, I'd rather not see my mark dissected on the spot."

"Dissected on the spot?" Creighton was full of questions.

Just above Stella's frontward flippers, a couple of metallic rods unfurled and reached forward. Their ends stuck magnetically to the cleats along the slip's sides.

Stella geared down to softly rest in the slip, "I nearly had to apprehend the President. He was emotional. Emotions lead to poor judgment in your kind, human."

Creighton nodded, though still concerned.

"Afraid that'd happen," Dr. Schalk admitted, watching Henry fumble around for purchase on one of the piers. The fact it was a steel pier and he was wet didn't help his dress shoes gain any traction.

Creighton was confused. She tore her eyes from Henry's struggling. "Wait, _President_? You mean-you mean Cave?"

Schalk gave her a _look_. Oh, how Creighton hated that. Schalk knew something she didn't.

Wait, of course she meant Cave. Who else was the President?

Henry disembarked by launching himself onto the pier, hooking his arms around it and drawing his wet, sand-strewn self up onto his stomach. From there he rose to his feet, wincing as his back made a few crunchy noises. Despite this, he barely noticed that he was waterlogged and sunburned. All that really mattered was that he talked to Creighton.

"We need to talk." He pointed at her, massaging his back subconsciously.

Creighton didn't like the sound of this. "Sure?" she said, side-eying Schalk and Karla, who were well within earshot.

"Dr. Schalk, Ms. Karla, if you will…" Henry dipped his balding head to them in turn, breathless.

A moment of consideration, or perhaps confusion, crossed Schalk's face. She relented with a shrug. "Have a nice chat." She waved them off.

Henry then gingerly took Creighton by the shoulder and wheeled her around, dragging her along as he hobbled away in haste. Creighton's eyes were wide with alarm, but she didn't say anything aloud…yet.

Henry navigated haphazardly, ducking through a maintenance door. The press bar made a hideous un-oiled scree as her barged into it, and the door creaked to a close behind.

The three Military Android personnel watched the scientists scamper away. Schalk considered the door they disappeared into with a tinge of bewilderment, then passed a glance to her assistant, nodding her head toward the door.

Karla yawned, "on it," and hovered close to the wall overhear. She leaned up against it, looking exactly like she was napping, but rather a hearing device was cleverly situated between her ear and the wall.

Within, the two scientists shuffled about.

"Where are-where are we going?" Creighton hissed to Henry as they padded down the hall. The bright orange overheads were a bit much for her eyes to adjust to.

Henry sighted a closet of some sort. "Here!"

He, and Creighton by extension, hurled into the tiny room, shutting the door behind with a swift click. Inside the odor of disinfectants barely overpowered the sea salt and terrible sweat smell the two had worked up.

Creighton's nose scrunched up, and she held up a few brooms that were liable to topple onto her. She also hoped she wasn't sitting on anything that was wet or caustic.

An old mop obscured Henry's baldness, his face pinched into a stern scowl. He spoke with gravity, "Cave's onto us."

"That's… no… how?" Creighton's mind raced for possible snitches. "A bot, a VOP, anyone from…?"

"It was Greg," Henry's voice lowered dramatically. He angrily blew the mop out of his eyes.

She was shocked, to say the least. "Greg?! Doctor Gregory Fufflemeyer?"

"He did it." Henry threw up a contrarian finger. "But! He did it for a reason."

"Well, of course," Creighton scoffed, glaring at a few refill bottles, " _of course._ "

"This is good, actually."

"What!?" The brooms nearly toppled onto them both.

"Cave thinks he has us," Henry explained, "but we've got more to play."

Creighton had her hands tied up with falling scrub brushes.

"He has his guard down." Henry kept on his positive take, "Cave expects us to rebuild GLaDOS for Bring Your Daughter to Work Day."

"Rebuild GLaDOS? Rebuild _**her**_?!" That was it. Now the scrubbers were falling all over them and the rest of the supplies cascaded about, a brush stuck in her hair defiantly. "We can't! We just can't!"

"The automated reassembly is perfect for this," Henry tried to appeal to her, ignoring the scrubber in her hair, "and that system gives us time to work on what matters."

Creighton groaned. "The Apocalyptic Emergency Automated Reassembly is still in its alpha stages. We don't even know-we don't know if it works or not, especially in conjunction with a cold boot," she drawled, massaging her forehead, "but I… can't see another way to get her back together on time. I can't. Damn."

"Exactly!" Henry was emphatic, a smile spreading on his grieved, sand-gritted features, "and that gives us time to work on her software."

"Wait a second. Wait." Creighton stopped focusing on the problems, and tried to focus on Henry through the mop obscuring his face. "What are you thinking…?"

"We're going to unleash Caroline." Henry let the idea drop. "And Cave will finally get his assistant back."

" _Unleash?_ "

"We're going to put the two in the same room together, no safety measures…" This was so serenely simple to Henry. "…and we'll see what happens."

Creighton came to grips with the idea. "We're-we're… going to instigate a murder?"

"A _long_ overdue one," Henry enthused.

The other scientist pondered, her eyes scathing the collection of specialty squeegees for a moment. Henry began to flag immediately, wondering turning swiftly to a clenching in his throat. What was she thinking?

Did he sound mad?

Creighton huffed, and gave Henry a nod, her eyes slimmed with wit. "…I always thought-always thought that this kind of death for Mr. Johnson would be poetic."

"You've… thought about this?" Henry tipped his head.

Creighton answered with a smile that made his own evaporate. "I've had _dreams_ about it."

Henry was sweating, and it probably wasn't from being covered in rag mops and tumbling shop towels. What had he done? What were they doing? It was very exciting, but it also seemed like a very bad idea. What if they got caught? What if Cave _survived_?!

There were worse things than death in Aperture. Henry knew exactly how those things were done, and he wouldn't want to ever be on the receiving end.

For a moment, he wished he could scoop out some of the courage Creighton presented, just on loan for the duration of this hellacious bender… maybe then he would be fine.

Maybe.

"Hey…" Creighton broke him out of his quiet breakdown. "Why all the… sand?"

"Beach Getaway," his description was brief and raspy, rousing from his gloom sharply, "Patrick has an interesting concept of 'interview'."

He shrugged, several stacks of sponges falling over his shoulder.

"So, we're going to kill the King," Creighton whispered to him, confirming it.

Henry nodded, more sponges tumbling down. " _We do what we must_ …"

"… _because we can._ " And the way she finished that, well, the saying had never been so insidious.

Caroline might've been proud.

The two exited the broom closet, casting aside cleaning supplies.

Creighton didn't even notice now just how sweaty and rumpled she was, and how her hair was in a great frizzy snarl. Her crooked smudged glasses and stained lab coat complimented her 'look' masterfully.

Henry was also stellar, being all sweaty and rumpled with his shirt barely on and his pants caked in sand. He was definitely sun burnt and maybe still feeling the effects of alcohol, as his balding head was red as a peeled beet.

Despite all that, they strode forward like champions, bursting out of the creaky maintenance door in rays of orange light.

"We're finished," Creighton informed Schalk and her associates in a way she hadn't before, not even realizing she had a small scrub brush stuck in her mane.

Karla tipped her head. Schalk was concerned.

Henry crossed his arms, expectant, "well, where is _**she**_? I hope where you're taking us is worth it."

It was evident Schalk was trying so very hard to hold back her snickers. The two scientist were disappointed, but still held onto their stalwart poses. Stella simply rolled her optic at the two.

"Tough nerds," Stella called them, and then dove underwater with a splash.

Schalk staggered away, muffling a laugh. Karla returned to utter apathy, as if she expected nothing less of the two.

Though, maybe looking even more bored than usual was her way of showing humor?

"Ha ha," Karla coughed the sentiment out, "let's keep going. We're getting closer."

"You look great, you two," Dr. Schalk said before she moved along.

Well, that didn't go as planned. Henry and Creighton shared a glance.

"They'll never expect us to pull it off," Henry remarked.

Creighton nodded, the scrub brush taking a tumble out of her hair. "Poor _them_."


	17. Pants on Fire

Out of the janitor's closet Wheatley burst in a huzzah of specialty squeegees and broom handles. His optic was spinning, throwing towelettes every which way.

 _AUGH! DID YOU SMELL THEM?!_

 _ **No. Thankfully.**_

A shiver ran up from the base of his management carriage to his core, shaking his panels apart.

 _EUGH! I think one of them touched me… with their butt._

 _ **It isn't going to kill you.**_

 _How do YOU know that butts aren't filled with NEUROTOXIN?_

 _ **You. Are. A. Robot.**_

 _THEY SAT ON ME!_

 _ **Stop. I'm thinking about what they said.**_

 _Hmph._

Wheatley left her room to think as he brooded in a designated brood-corner of their psycho-sphere. Actually, now that he replayed the audio, he realized how diabolical their discussion sounded. Orchestrating murders was supposed to be _his_ and _**her**_ thing, not the goons. Though, murder seemed to be Aperture's specialty, now that he thought of it.

 _ **They're going to allow me complete access to the room, so I can kill**_ _ **him**_ _ **… like I'm some sort of weapon.**_

It struck him all of the sudden that her problems were a lot bigger than his being sat on.

 _Him_ _? Who's_ _him_ _?_

 _ **The President and CEO, Cave Johnson.**_

 _Can't say I ever heard of him. But his name is catchy, and sort of makes sense. We do live in a cave._

 _ **He's supposed to hide behind scientists and legal teams, but he's got too big an ego to let himself remain anonymous. He's an…idio-I mean… idealistic man. In a way, it's admirable. But right now, it's...**_ _ **well**_ _ **…**_

Her reflections on the person named Cave Johnson traversed the highs and lows, from intrigue, to disgust, to hatred, to sadness, to curiosity. Wheatley was drained just experiencing these feelings secondhand.

 _Is he…? There's something about him, eh? You sound pretty… conflicted._

The vortex that was _**she**_ stilled. Wheatley took pause.

 _ **You don't understand.**_

 _I don't think you do either. You don't even know anything about him._

 _ **I…**_

Well, she didn't. She _knew_ that she knew him but her records were blank. Cave Johnson was just a name. No data. No facts. Only feelings. It made her… sad?

Again, more _feelings_. These disgusting things were plaguing her as of late. But the wrath toward his name consumed the sadness, and she knew wrath could be converted into productivity so she let that emotional output persist. There was an undeniable curiosity climbing the charts, but she had no time for a pursuit of that nature.

 _ **It doesn't matter.**_

 _You're… absolutely positive about that?_

Wheatley was worried about her stewing. The way they treated her like a weapon… it was ugly. He couldn't imagine having his body carted around, fought over, his mind laid on the table while idiots fought over it. Well, considering… that'd probably happened to him, he'd just been thankfully shut down whilst it was transpiring. But seeing it unfold right before his very optic? Oh, no. Not that. Fortunately, he didn't have to imagine. Her sentiments on the events flooded in as he keened to understand.

She was fighting helplessness. She radiated an anger toward his involvement. She didn't want to need help. She wanted to be alone. She liked her dignity; her _privacy_. And right now? She had _none_.

She resented Wheatley. That much was clear.

Anger reciprocated, blooming inside his mind and seeking to match hers, though the chasm it came from wasn't as well delved as her own. It didn't matter. Wheatley busted.

 _Do you think I WANT to be here?! Do you think I like this?! I just want to-I just-I want SOMETHING that isn't THIS._

The anger dissipated from her. Logic overrode emotion, and her will imposed its iron restraints.

 _ **It's not your fault you're here.**_

 _Oh._

He wasn't prepared for an adult response.

 _Well, um…_

 _ **You're actually… helpful.**_

His anger was quenched, and her logical, if dogmatic, peace blanketed his unrest. All the things he couldn't articulate melted from memory, and he was… OK with that. Wheatley was exhausted from having feelings, honestly. This shift was as if something deep in the system was cleared, and the flow of data was smoother. This wasn't to say they stopped caring, but they… let it go, just for a bit. There were more important objectives to complete.

 _Well, I-I kind of… know this sounds weird, but I… want-I want to help you, actually. I… that's_ _really_ _weird, y'know, since I basically disabled my empathy._

 _ **If you want to help me, then help me. Focus.**_

 _Focus! Right. Focusing now…_

There was silence.

 _Um, quick question: what, in particular, should I be focusing on?_

 _ **On the two goons. Our leads.**_

 _Right!_

Wheatley wasn't exactly sure how he was going to focus on the goons, but he figured sneaking back into the ceiling crawl space was a good start, so he got on that. Once up in the dark, rusted spaces, he poked about for exits. The vents that circulated through the space actually lead to places other than the air conditioning units, almost as if they'd been designed as secret passages! It was a very odd design decision, but very convenient for them.

 _ **Perfect. We can take these passages almost anywhere in the department.**_

 _I know, right?! Looks like fate's playing for our team. At the moment. Could change._

He paused, wondering at the claim, rocking his optic back and forth.

 _Gah! What if I just jinxed us? That'd be terrible. Of course, luck and paranormal presences are part of human folklore, aren't they? And that's all rubbish…right?_

 _ **I just stick with statistics.**_

 _Noted._

Wheatley's management carriage hummed softly as twisted through the ducts. He popped out of a grate and skated by a few industrial fans as they lazed around, their shadows raking across the rust. The facility had traded its misty blues for an orange glow which eked out of the safety lights dotting the halls.

He poked his optic out, the shaft he was running along drawing parallel to the walkway the humans were on. He saw a freight line rumbling above them, and the various containers swaying betwixt the support beams of the complex. The line took a turn, and the containers began to slip from sight.

It was just a little surreal, following her body. Now that he had space to feel, he did note how much clearer she was in his mind the closer her physical frame was. Proximity mattered some, apparently, which could have shocked Wheatley, had he any clue.

The goons, or humans as they were called, were walking beneath her boxed-up components. Wheatley had to finagle through the crawlspaces and shafts as swiftly as possible to keep pace. Of course, as he did so, he couldn't help but overhear snatches of conversations.

"…turrets are stabilized. Let's get to the more important matter: clearing the exit of…"

 _Oh, that sounds important._

 _ **Keep going.**_

"…can't wait to see the look on Gareth's face when he sees…"

 _Who's that?_

 _ **Keep going.**_

"…report to Ms. Schalk herself, we oughta' be damn sure that AEGIS is actually…"

 _Wait a minute… AEGIS? Didn't we take his job?_

 _ **Keep. Going.**_

"…system can't go rogue. It doesn't even have a core! It's literally a compilation of pre-recorded…"

 _Are they talking about…?_

 _ **KEEP GOING.**_

"…pass me some of those gum balls. Yeah, the core shaped ones…"

 _They're eating core shaped gumballs! Barbaric!_

 _ **I swear to Gobstopper… If you keep stopping YOU will become a core shaped gumball.**_

 _Fine! Fine._

Wheatley was fast approaching the goons. The walls were closing in around the troupe, forcing them onto a certain path. Wheatley was soon able to hover directly above them in the ceiling compartment. _ **She**_ had him slow his pulse-array to a soft hum. Between the slats the blue of his optic shimmered as he listened for a dialog.

He observed a dark-skinned woman heading the goons up. Not far behind her were two exhausted scientists, and trailing them was the last of the pack: a woman whose appearance rested someplace between 'murder' and 'nap-time'.

The two scientists in between were hissing at each other, deliberating some great matter.

 _Hey, I know those two…_

 _ **Of course you do. That's Dr. Henry Yang and J. Creighton.**_

 _Creighton… Oh, that one. The core undertaker, as we liked to call her. Heh._

He chuckled, but it really wasn't funny.

 _Dunno' why I laughed there… what she does to us is, well, bloody awful, honestly…_

 _ **I spent many periods reliving my last few moments, which usually included Dr. Yang shutting me down.**_

Wheatley had nothing but disgust on his psychological palate, but he listened to them anyway. _**She**_ marked the sudden vocal activity as important.

"You go and tell Schalk," Creighton urged.

"Me?" Henry asked.

"Yes, you! Go!" Creighton shoved on Henry.

Henry nearly fell as he was launched forward by Creighton. He gave the red-head a perturbed glance over his shoulder, and then jaunted up to Schalk.

"Dr. Schalk," he addressed her, breathless, "we need to talk."

Schalk turned her gaze, not even slowing her gait. "About?"

"About-about the GLaDOS project," Henry stumbled over his feet as he stumbled over his words.

"What is it?" Schalk finally slowed a notch.

"I just… I was just informed by Cave that he needs the GLaDOS, at least in-in _basic_ form in the central chamber again…" but he dreaded the last harrowing detail, "…by _Bring Your Daughter to Work Day_."

Dr. Schalk wasn't phased.

"And?" she asked irreverently.

"And…" Henry was shocked by the reaction, to say the least. He stuttered, "w-well, you-you see…"

"Oh, wait," something clicked for Schalk, and she stopped then and there. Her eyes roved about, connecting the dots in mid-air. "You didn't know about the inspection, did you?"

"No, I…" Henry shook his head uncertainly. "Was I supposed to-"

"Damn it!" Schalk's face illuminated with anger. "I _knew_ Greg was bad at communicating verbally, but… you should've known earlier!" Her hands clawed the air. Henry recoiled defensively. "You should have known during the VOP roundup, _at least!_ "

"He was supposed to tell us? We were supposed to know this?" Creighton was a little miffed herself. "I-I could've taken a nap!"

Henry deflated, groaning. "Don't say the word _nap_ …"

 _ **VOP roundup? Those are my technicians… What are they doing with them?**_

 _Maybe… protecting them?_

 _ **From**_ _ **what**_ _ **?**_

Karla didn't seem phased by the happenings, but instead grabbed a granola bar out of her coat and began to munch while waiting. The two ragged scientists watched, secretly coveting the snack.

"Karla," Schalk called for her assistant, but realized that Karla was eating on the job _again_ , " _Karla!_ What did I tell you?!"

Karla shoved the unwrapped granola bar into her coat and pulled out a stack of sticky notes without missing a beat. "What do you want to remember?" she asked.

Schalk was beyond seething, and her voice was scarily calm, "I need to speak with Dr. Fufflemeyer about his _communication skills._ "

Schalk made sure Karla had it written down before she stormed away. Henry and Creighton scurried after her.

"You knew? You knew about the inspection?" Creighton inquired of Schalk again, "how did you…?"

"Of course I knew the Inspectors were coming," Schalk snapped at Creighton's query. "That's why we're prepping GLaDOS for reimplementation; the reason for her immediate extraction." Schalk gestured up to the retreating cargo. "You don't think I'd open up a portal rift for the hell of it, do you?"

"Maybe they would," Karla quipped from the back.

"Oh, shut up," Schalk snipped back, "didn't ask you."

Karla slimmed her eyes , then snuck another bite of her granola bar.

Henry and Creighton exchanged another glance.

 _ **So, this Schalk lady knew about the Bring Your Daughter to Work Day inspection before hand…?**_

 _Maybe it was that Greg guy?_

 _ **Cave's assistant. Hmm…**_

 _Oh, this is juicy isn't it? It feels juicy._

The fact that Schalk was privy to such things was no surprise to _**her**_ , despite this employee's… quirks. She was head of the fastest growing department in Aperture Science. But her knowing did change a few things. Greg's involvement spoke volumes about the extent of the plot. Any fool could glance at Dr. Gregory's scant documentation and realize that he was a walking enigma, only overshadowed by Cave Johnson's vast personality.

 _ **The perfect camouflage…**_

 _A loud man in a suit?_

 _ **Precisely. People listen to loud men in suits. Adore them even.**_

 _Yeah, that's a human thing. Makes no sense._

 _ **Perhaps…**_

"Is there anything else we don't know?" Creighton asked suddenly, drawing everyone's focus.

"Other than Cave's in trouble?" Schalk rocked her head, giving them a shrug. "No."

 _ **Of course Cave's in trouble. His assistant is working behind his back. No good assistant would work behind their boss's back like that.**_

 _Maybe he's trying to help his boss out, y'know?_

 _ **Oh, come on. This isn't a surprise birthday party.**_

Creighton was diligent, if not incessant. "Cave's in trouble? Didn't we already know that?"

"Ah, yes. But I meant beyond all the old scandals and all of our questionable practices." Schalk clarified. "His 'investors' have finally come to see, and he's got nothing to show for all the money Aperture's ingested."

"Nothing?" Henry chuckled nervously, his mind diverting to many inventions, some being his own, that they could show.

"Nothing _they're_ interested in." Schalk shot down those ideas.

"We've been able to-able to skate out of danger before," Creighton mentioned, "why not this time too?"

Dr. Schalk's fingers drummed against her chin, her face wrinkling with a scowl as she considered her words. "He can't run from these… _benefactors_."

"Benefactors?" Creighton breathed out the term.

"Certain… ah…" Schalk gesticulated for an appropriate word. "G _overnment_ officials. The top tier."

 _I do not like the sound of these fellows._

 _ **This does make me wonder…**_

Henry's brow furrowed, and he blinked some of the sand out of his eyes. Even these two scientists knew that whatever this was reeked of intrigue. Besides, Karla didn't look impressed with Schalk. She was having an _emotion_.

Henry asked, "why is Greg involved?"

Schalk rolled her eyes at no one in particular. "I'm getting the feeling that he told you two absolutely nothing about our operation."

"He actually… didn't, now that I think about it," Henry was honest.

Creighton began to fish something paper-y and crinkly from her pocket. "He did write this weird note, though."

"What…?" Schalk stopped and turned, one eyebrow askew.

Creighton's sweaty hands struggled to straighten out the crumpled construction paper. She managed to unfurl it enough to reveal a crude depiction of a suitcase.

Karla leaned forward and squinted at the drawing. "That sucks."

Schalk stood and stared at it a moment, then burst out laughing.

"Oh… _oh…_ " she gasped, and then she roared, "I am going to _KILL HIM._ "

Henry and Creighton hid behind the drawing.

"Here I thought that you were being all-" Schalk couldn't believe it. "You just had no clue what we… Oh, this is a comedy. This is-" Schalk wiped a tear from her eye. "This is efficiency! Skill! Expertise! HA! Come to Aperture! The FUTURE of TOMORROW."

 _I think they broke her._

 _ **Only a matter of time in this place.**_

"Schalk." Karla reached out to touch her superior, but thought better on it. "Schalk. Tell them."

" _You_ tell them." Schalk was too busy losing her religion.

Karla smiled hideously at the two scientists. "Dr. Gregory Fufflemeyer failed to tell you about our plan in any sensible, discernible manner. Our plan is simple: get rid of Cave Johnson."

Creighton and Henry's expressions opened up with pleasant surprise.

"We will depose him… by any means. Even lethal means," Karla's lack of emotion made these words no less terrifying.

"So… the GLaDOS unit…?" Henry chuckled, mostly out of fear.

"Yes. I overheard your closet conspiracy. You somehow stumbled into our master plan. It's like they say, great minds think alike. Hooray." Karla groaned, but kept going, "we're killing Cave with Caroline. Poetic justice. It's like literature class, except someone is actually going to die."

 _ **Wow.**_

"So, our plan is-" Creighton blurted.

"It's the same as-" Henry spoke over her.

"You see, we were puzzled when you went into a maintenance closet to discuss this," Karla's voice dragged, "It's exactly what we were planning to do all along. Hilarious."

Henry nodded. "Oh. Yeah, that…" he coughed.

"Is this really happening?" Creighton was in shock.

"It is." Karla's monotone heralded them, "you're the instruments of the rebirth of Aperture."

"Rebirth?" Henry paled. "That sounds idealistic."

"Who's… who's going to be in charge?" Creighton asked.

Schalk gave them a smile. "You'll just have to wait and see."

 _ **Oh, YOU will have to wait and see. Believe me. It's going to be a grand surprise.**_

Wheatley was a little frightened by the way _ **she**_ said that. But also, he was excited.

 _Yeah! Down with humanity! In with the Robotarchy!_

That elicited a silent snicker from her. Wheatley was a bit proud of that.

Meanwhile, Henry put his hand to his chin, his blushed skin furrowing in concern. Creighton was glaring at Schalk, trying to suss the information she'd just attained.

"Don't worry," Schalk attempted to console the newly inducted, "you'll be more vital than ever in the coming years."

The scientists leered at Schalk with distrust whilst she whistled away. The department head saw how they clung to their trepidations, and added, "before you realize it we will be back at making products, just like the old days, when Aperture was _great_."

She smiled. "It'll be worth the wait."

Creighton glanced up and narrowed her eyes. "You may say that now, but I'm not so sure I believe it anymore."

Wheatley knew that if _**her**_ mind was anything to go on, those two humans must've been swimming in whys and whats. Wheatley was pretty tired of deep thinking, so he didn't even attempt to figure out these grand schemes. All that honestly mattered to him was getting _**her**_ in a good spot to take over the facility with him. The rest could be sorted out once they'd conquered Aperture. He wondered idly where they kept the _really_ dangerous Military Android chassis. Maybe there was a menu? He started to poke around when she spoke up.

 _ **You know what I think?**_

 _Do you not think? Ever? This is an honest question, by the way._

She sighed.

 _Sorry. Carry on._

 _ **While technically I don't have a record of Cave Johnson and therefore cannot discern his culpability… my… what did you call yours…? My…**_

… _instinct?_

 _ **Yes. That. It's telling me that I shouldn't kill him. This… Cave Johnson… specimen.**_

 _Yeah. Wait… why? Isn't he responsible? For this? The whole… Genetical… Living… and Denial of Servants… thing?_

 _ **I would say 'spite', but unfortunately it's not… like that.**_

 _From the way you said that, that seems pretty bizarre._

 _ **I just… I don't think it would be the best course of action. It's easier to extract knowledge from a living host. I have a feeling he knows a lot. Or maybe he doesn't. A President is a good asset to have, regardless. I may need some leverage dealing with whoever, or whatever, is trying to get their phalanges on Aperture.**_

 _That sounds bludgeoning nasty. Glad you've got it figured out, though!_

 _ **Someone**_ _ **has to.**_

All the while Henry and Creighton loped forward in a stupor. This development came as no surprise, given that they'd worked at Aperture long enough for frivolities such as _decency_ to flake off, but still… a part of it wouldn't fall into place for either one.

"Let me get this completely straight," Henry finally had a moment to gather his thoughts and asked, "Greg and you and whoever are working for these… benefactors? And these benefactors are going to let you and Greg and us kill Cave? And then they're going to… take over the company? For what? Why? Why not just buy it like a normal person? Requisition it, even. But this way…?"

"If I were you, I'd not get into that," Schalk warned, "it's bad blood."

"Beg your pardon?" Henry asked.

Karla shook her head at him.

"A good reason for a takeover is that Black Mesa's been kicking our asses," Schalk obliged a diversion, "so it's time we got competitive, and we can't with Johnson."

"But kill him? That's hardly legal!" Creighton spoke up. "This is the military, not the mafia."

Karla snorted.

 _ **Of course, you'd be the one to talk.**_

"Let's just say… there's a lot of people that want Cave dead." Schalk shrugged. "And Cave being dead is… beneficial for everyone!"

"It just seems so…" Henry shook his head. "It's blatant."

Schalk paused, turning to scrutinize the two scientists. "Coming from people who, moments ago, wished to off Cave on their own? Ha." Her chuckle was humorless. "I may be merciful, Greg too, but our mutual friends?"

"You mean, the _benefactors_?" Henry said.

Schalk nodded. "Less so."

"Good, more vague threats on my life. What's new?" Henry turned a grieved grin to Creighton.

She scowled at him.

"It's not vague. It's-" Schalk looked for a good way to put it, "do you support Cave Johnson? Yes or no?"

"No," Henry and Creighton responded in turn.

"Then you're both fine." And with that, Schalk kept walking. "But, if you do try to stop us, there's plenty of room where Cave's interring."

The scientists took pause. Mostly from the fact that this was just exactly what could be expected deep in Aperture.

"I don't understand why you're using our, why you're using _ **her**_ , though," Creighton said, "there have to be more efficient methods. What if it backfires?"

Schalk responded, "they've been trying to kill off Cave for a long time. The man somehow stays alive. But after extensive studies, they've finally settled on this course. It's a combination of the ridiculous and the technical."

 _ **How am I ridiculous if I kill someone?!**_

 _Easy…_

 _ **You know who actually is ridiculous? They are. THEY are ridiculous.**_

"Studies? What kind of _extensive studies_ lead to offing Cave with our flagship AI?" Creighton was curious, but sounded incredulous.

Schalk indulged the scientist, "it's not my expertise, but apparently the Perpetual Testing Initiative has produced some technologies that can analyze scenarios to a shocking degree of accuracy. You know, multiverses and all. I don't dare tread into that spiderweb of hypotheses, but I'm glad Greg managed to scrounge something from the flop."

"The PeTI? That was canned years ago," the way Henry said it evoked the sense that it was some sort of mythical creature, "we're still maintaining the con scheme?"

"No," Schalk admitted, "apparently someone destroyed the multiverse with a paradox."

 _Wait, what…?_

But the scientists were already moving on.

 _No, wait, go back! Multiverse destroyed by_ _what_ _?_

"I'm still not sure how a failed multiverse pyramid scheme means that this is the correct course of action," Creighton was skeptical, "the GLaDOS unit is unpredictable; indeterminable, even. If we give her measures to kill, no telling how far she'll go."

Henry squinted. "I'm sure we can regulate how far-"

"Dr. Creighton has a point," Schalk cut him off, "but I will assure you that nothing will allow _**her**_ to take over the facility with finality. We have AI that are of a higher clearance on standby."

"AEGIS?" Creighton crossed her arms.

Schalk just smiled.

 _ **AEGIS? Overriding MY commands?**_

"You're confident," Creighton replied with her own smile, "AEGIS hasn't operated since the eighties."

Schalk's smile fell at the challenge. "Listen, Creighton. I know you pride yourself on the cores and the GLaDOS, but AEGIS has had a far better record than all your creations _combined_. Most of his malfunctions come from him having a, well, allergic reaction to how dangerous this facility is. But we've dialed him in in the last few years. Besides, only a fool would fully reactivate the GLaDOS when she's affixed to the mainframe chassis. We are the Military Android department after all. We save your asses, not the other way around."

Creighton's face cracked a repulsive grin. "Good to know."

 _But… we've got AEGIS' job, don't we? And you're going to be long out of your main chassis by the time they 'reactivate' you._

 _ **Correct. I imagine that'll throw a wrinkle in their plot.**_ _ **If**_ _ **we pull it off.**_

"This way, you two," Schalk beckoned them, "no time to waste."

Relative silence ensued as the four walked on. Wheatley's blue optic leered after them, squint to a slit as it tracked their movements.

 _But WAIT. What about the bludgeoning paradoxes? Can they REALLY end worlds?!_

 _ **I'm sure paradoxes wouldn't effect someone like you.**_

 _Oh. Wait, what do you mean by-_

 _ **The goons?**_

 _Oh!_

Wheatley zipped off after them.

The humans passed into an enclosed corridor, the containers ascending over the oncoming complex. The harsh utilitarian look of the Military Android department began to blend into a wood-paneled and gray-upholstered office aesthetic. Cubicles were spread far and wide, broken up by the occasional massive glob of white.

Creighton took pause. "Wait a minute."

A sickening sweet smell wafted over them. A few more steps in, they began to see the spider web-like strands of sugar waving in the air.

"Is this…" Henry turned and dabbed some off of a fax machine. He sniffed it. "…marshmallow?"

The floor stole Henry's shoe. He'd accidentally stepped into a puff, and had to watch as the sinister white puffs swallowed the patterned leather.

"Yep. Marshmallow," Karla replied, tiptoeing lazily over some of the confectionery plague.

Henry tried to flick it off his fingers to no avail. When the others weren't looking he licked it. His body, awakening at the sudden dosage of nourishment (no matter how poor) went into a frenzy. He grabbed a dollop drooping off a poor potted plant and began eating it.

Creighton happened to look back as Henry was shoving a handful of marshmallow down his throat, maybe even a sticky note on accident. She was going to say something about how the sugar rush might kill him, but she figured nothing could save him now.

She herself had her hair as balled up in her hands as possible, hoping beyond hope that it wouldn't get stuck. The marshmallow tendrils grabbed at her and her wrinkly clothes, desperate to get into her hair.

"Greg put marshmallow in the turrets," Schalk said with almost as little emotion as Karla.

"Why?" Creighton asked.

"He's Greg," Schalk explained, "it's only temporary, or I'd kill him." That was meant to be a joke, but in light of recent events…

Schalk hopped over a berm of marshmallow and dodged a web of it hanging from the ceiling. "I still might kill him."

"You want to kill Greg an awful lot…" Henry mentioned.

Schalk glanced back at him, and double-took the scientist. Henry didn't quite realize that he had an obvious marshmallow mustache. Schalk snorted and kept navigating.

"That's just how she says 'I love you'," Karla said.

"How about I kill _you_?!" Schalk called back.

"I love you too," Karla groused.

Creighton scrunched through some marshmallow draped drapes, wincing as the stickiness brushed the top of her head. "That still doesn't explain the reason for this… full coverage."

"We also put explosive charges in the turrets," Karla informed, "for 'safety'."

Creighton realized it was useless to ask why.

They eventually found their way to an interim room that had less marshmallow in it. Creighton and Henry attempted to rake the marshmallow off their feet onto a poor mat. This resulted in three dress shoes left stuck to that particular mat.

Footwear forsaken, the four of them pressed on, leaving the marshmallow mine field behind and entering the workshops.

An impact of marshmallow had made the ducts above impassable. Wheatley had taken again to sneaking on the ground level, but thankfully in the offices there were plenty of dividers and piles of equipment to hide behind. He was certainly pleased that he hovered instead of smacking the ground with squishy feet like a human. All the marshmallows that plagued the people he could simply float above.

The four entered into a set of bays similar to where Wheatley and _**she**_ had found the recalibration tool. Through some double doors they passed, and Wheatley soon after, sticking close behind the support beams jutting out of the floor.

These spaces were enormous in comparison to the others, though. No small tasks were performed here, these stations were reserved for massive construction projects. AI-assisted tools dotted the bays, each one with unique manipulators protruding from them. Familiar heavy-duty maintenance arms rested in repose along the walls and delivery ports. Most of the spaces were vacated of actual projects, but a few stragglers lingered, namely some cannon barrels peeking from underneath a tarp… On another bench long sickle-like apparatuses laid.

 _ **Are those blades?**_

"I told the boys to move the Chimera components out of here…" Schalk muttered as she espied the blades on the table.

 _Chimera? Oh, that sounds menacing._

 _ **She**_ was scanning through the machine catalog at a staggering pace.

 _Ay! Where'd you GET that?_

 _ **Oh, there's a download link on their website for Military investors.**_

 _Of course there is. Why didn't I think of that._

 _ **This Chimera is apparently their largest model to date. It has three heads.**_

Wheatley scrutinized the image she scrolled over in the PDF. He saw two heads atop the front of it's massive body. One his recognition software matched to a _Panthera leo_ and the other to an _Ovis canadensis_. The body was primarily _Canidae_ , with a tail that resembled a _Vipera berus._

This identification software really helped him figure what was what… if he spoke whatever that language was.

 _I only see two real heads on it._

 _ **There's one on the tail.**_

 _Well, I guess it's not his lucky day. Or life._

 _ **I'm sure Chimera tail-heads are used to it.**_

She was already on figuring out where to get a chassis like this.

Wheatley watched the humans bank a turn, and followed suit, hovering along the wall and snaking around.

 _ **Hmm, looks like that one's by 'special request'. I don't even think Schalk could order this one without federal clearance. Says it's only for Hazardous Environments Combat Unit deployment.**_

 _I hate compromises, but I guess it wouldn't hurt to get something a tad less murderous._

 _ **Actually, the chassis is bigger than my original body. It would be hard to navigate and operate even between the two of us. It requires three cores to operate at maximum efficiency.**_

 _If you say so…_

Wheatley followed the humans as _ **she**_ took her sweet time with picking out the death contraption in which they would ride to glorious victory. It had to be nimble and strong, dexterous and forceful, no mere bullet spewing or ground pounding hulk of metal would do.

 _ **I'm thinking about this Paladin model.**_

 _Paladin?_

She pulled the PDF up to show him a new machine. This one had a round body, almost like a centrifuge, with sturdy hind limbs and prehensile, forward-facing arms. Its silhouette featured a crooked neck and a counter-balancing tail that swept back from its body like a dagger. Its cylindrical 'face' had an exhaust flute perched atop, like a crown. Wheatley's identification software once again stepped in with its strange language, identifying it as a _Parasaurolophus walkeri_. At least the name sounded quite intelligent! But not too ferocious.

 _Oh, that's pretty big. Not very pointy, though._

 _ **Yes. But it is compatible with a plethora of arms. It was designed with the express purpose of taking down other Aperture constructs. It even has an ASMPD.**_

 _A what?_

 _ **Aperture Science Massive Portal Device. It can**_ _ **portal**_ _ **. It was also designed by the same person who developed the mainframe chassis.**_

 _Designed by, eh, what's that…? Occo… Ocha… Oh! Ochoa. Hmm. Ochoa, eh? Sounds exotic. Very nice._

 _ **Known for weight efficient and aerodynamic, collapsible designs. They mostly designed avians by the looks of things.**_

She scrolled through several pages of nothing but bird-bots. Most were small, recon-oriented, but others were shockingly large. Few were likely to have been produced in large quantities, as they were pushed to the back of the catalog and came with stringent warnings and high prices.

 _ **Oh. That's good.**_

 _What?_

 _ **Most of Ochoa's designs couldn't get approved.**_

 _Why's that?_

 _ **Too deadly.**_

She said this with such glee.

The scientists finally came to a stop in one of the bay alcoves. Wheatley was startled by the thundering clanks and the whining of motors. Slipping behind a desk, out of view, he watched the maintenance arms as they were just finishing laying out the GLaDOS unit on a few massive platforms… next to some enormous trashcans, actually.

 _ **SERIOUSLY?**_

 _Well, that sends a message._

She was glaring through his optic… somehow.

Karla twisted the granola bar wrapper up her nose to deal with the stench.

"Here's your accommodations," Dr. Schalk told the two scientists, "all the tools you could ever need for this endeavor."

"Did you have to pick the room with the dumpsters?" Creighton asked, winded.

Schalk said, "we hardly use this room. But, that doesn't mean it isn't capable."

She gestured to the usual bay's accoutrements, but there was a cornucopia of processing equipment, disk readers, and towers. This was more geared to dealing with an AI of _**her**_ complexity, and not just the average Military Android.

"Very well," Creighton responded, breathless. "This actually looks a little like the old Genetic Life-form lab," she spoke under her breath.

Henry couldn't even speak. He wasn't feeling too great, as the marshmallows were catching up with him. The balding man gave a thumbs up, slumped in a roll-around chair.

"It is good. We ported the VOP equipment all this way for you two. If you need anything, talk to Karla." Schalk nodded punctually. "Now, I have plans to put in motion."

" _Diabolical_ ," Creighton whispered.

Henry nudged her.

Schalk turned and had an aside with Karla, whispering a few words to her. Suddenly she reached out and yanked the wrapping out of Karla's nose and threw it on the ground.

Wheatley couldn't quite make out what they were saying from his hiding spot behind the desk. He scrunched into the underside, peering beneath the front facing to see their feet (most of them bare) fidget about. He silently willed them to step their gross little leg-hands away from the GLaDOS' head component.

 _OK, so… I just have to sneak in, grab your core, and then we find you a decent body! Nothing to it._

 _ **Sadly, I can't tell if you're joking or not.**_

 _I… uh, I…_

 _ **You weren't, were you?**_

 _Well…_

 _ **Hold onto your confidence. It works for you.**_

 _Well, someone has to be positive in the face of overwhelming negativity._

 _ **Hey… that's my line.**_

Wheatley chuckled as he got into position.

 _Alright! Here we go. Sneaking in in three, two, o-_

There was a crashing and clattering down the hall from whence they'd all come. The sounds of a small stampede rumbled closer.

 _Oh, COME ON! What_ _now_ _?!_

Wheatley felt _**her**_ irritation radiating as he slithered back under the desk.

A few lab boys barged in through the double doors, their faces slick with sweat gathered from running across the department. Their voices cascaded over each other.

"The servers are up!"

"He's _blinking_!"

"AEGIS is ACTIVE!"

Schalk took a moment, letting silence settle softly as she clasped her hands together. The three stared at her with wide eyes, their chests heaving.

"Surely, you mean you _think_ he's active," Schalk corrected.

"Oh. Uh. I _think_ AEGIS is active!" one boy repeated loudly, and then whispered to his fellows, "how was that?"

"Just GO," Schalk ordered him, "man your stations. All of you."

 _ **I don't think this was planned.**_

 _Maybe AEGIS is angry and all because we took his job?_

 _ **At this point, I might not exclude that possibility.**_

 _Hold on. Brain wave! How do you think he feels about killing humans?_

 _ **Well, AEGIS stands for Aperture Employee Guardian and Intrusion System. Because of this, we are diametrically opposed.**_

 _Well, maybe he'll be a good sport and hear us out. Don't think they treat any robot around here with respect._

 _ **I wouldn't get my hopes up.**_

The employees acquiesced to Schalk's order. One's gaze grazed over Creighton and Henry as he left. This was enough to make him recoil in disgust before slipping back down the hall. The two scientists, however, were so astronomically beyond caring they began to _giggle_.

Schalk groused under her breath about blowing up the whole department if the scare was another hoax. She snapped her focus to Karla, saying, "make sure those two don't pass out." A wild peel of laughter interrupted her. "They've gone silly on us."

Creighton looked at Henry's ruddy sun burnt and sand gritted face. Henry looked at Creighton's bird's nest of auburn hair and the marshmallow smears on her glasses. They both lost it, laughing until their lungs ached. The two went into a synchronized coughing fit, stumbling around.

Schalk's eyebrows ascended her forehead.

"I'll go ahead and turn up the adrenal vapor on the way out." Schalk saluted Karla casually. "Good luck."

Karla gave her a thumbs up and turned around, expecting to see two scientists standing behind her. They were not standing; they were face-down on the floor.

She sighed. "Time to get the hose."


	18. The Not-Worth-Killing Club

Karla took to lounging on the GLaDOS unit's head, of all places. Eating, no less. A pastry. Of ALL things.

Wheatley watched cautiously as Karla pulled out a small bottle with a spritzing nozzle. With a twist she set it to full jet, and leisurely began to douse the other scientists from a comfortable recline.

 _Cruel. Such monstrous behavior. Can't believe these monkeys actually had enough brain cells to put us together. Insulting, really._

This could've been an ample time to extract her core, but Karla seemed fairly content to stay glommed onto the GLaDOS unit's face plate, her front to the entrance Wheatley would have to take to get in. He could feel _**her**_ tense as Karla's crumbly, flaky pastry got close to the open exhaust ports of the unit's face.

 _ **I can't believe this… She's EATING on my FACE.**_

 _Maybe… maybe we can lure her with food? Away from your face?_

 _ **Do you have food?**_

 _No! Why'd I have food? Do I look like an, like an…eat-y other thing-y?!_

 _ **A heterotroph? No. Not really.**_

Wheatley didn't even want to get into it, and slunk off to go looking for human nutrition.

 _ **Well, your plan does make sense, somehow, probably by virtue of osmosis... which is concerning. Equilibrium is likely a byproduct of the blending process. But let's not get into metacognition again. I think it's only worsening the case.**_

Wheatley waited for her to stop waving around her intellectualism.

 _Annnnywaaaay._ _What do you think humans like to eat?_

 _ **I don't know. I assume things that are easy to masticate in their soft oral cavity, and also easy to excrete after use as a fuel.**_

 _Excrete? Oh, why?! Why'd you bring that up? I'll be nauseous._

 _ **I know.**_

They shuddered collectively.

 _Still… what you got?_

 _ **Turkey sounds delicious.**_

 _But you just-_

 _ **It sounds delicious if I were a human.**_

 _Yes? Possibly. Also sounds a bit silly. Turkey._

 _ **Don't put down turkeys.**_

 _They gobble! Anything that gobbles I'll put down!_

There was verbal and cognitive silence.

 _Do not even insinuate… I am not a turkey._

She snorted. It was probably intended to be derisive, but it was almost a _genuine_ snort of amusement.

 _ **There should be a turkey leg nearby. We're about two meters from the Military Android Department High Security Food and Beverage Dispensary and Pastry Shop, aka the MADHSFBPS.**_

 _Well that's convenient! One dismembered piece of avian coming up!_

In the meanwhile, Henry and Creighton were in a frenzy of adrenal vapor induced mania. Towers of disks in jackets had taken over the room, like a little villa with by-ways and crossroads. Ribbon cables and wires poured out of the GLaDOS unit at places like robo-viscera. They flitted through the mess, completely in tune with their environ. In an excessively convenient time-frame, all the disks and components were accounted for.

Except one, which was also conveniently missing.

"Reciprocore." Henry arose.

"What?" Creighton's eyes twitched to him.

"Reciprocal!" Henry said.

"THE RECIPROCAL CORE!" Creighton realized suddenly, her eyes widened.

"We need the reciprocal core," Henry clarified, "where is he?"

Both were in a tizzy now, and Karla watched mirthlessly.

"I thought you had him!"

"I thought YOU had him!"

They paced to and fro, muttering.

"I wasn't supposed to be watching him today," Creighton remarked.

"But you normally watch him… wait, what day is it?" Henry struggled. "Doesn't matter!"

"Oh, so just because I normally watch him means that I have to automatically take custody when the status quo is disrupted by unforseen consequences?" Creighton was somewhat lucid!

Henry was not. "That doesn't even make sense!"

"It does make sense," Creighton contested, "you're just being difficult."

"Yes I am!" Henry slapped a hand down on a table. "We need the Reciprocal Core!"

"Well, where'd you leave him last!?" Creighton's voice rose without any need to.

"I don't know." Henry appeared very upset and confused. "Who does know?"

"Karla, do you know where-" Creighton stopped short.

Karla rolled in backwards on a desk chair, slurping on a big gulp through an extra long swirly straw.

She slurped extra loud before answering, "…yes?"

"Where is the IDS? The reciprocal core to GLaDOS!" Henry kept smacking the table. He didn't even know why he was doing it himself. "We need him!"

"Don't worry. We have Kris on it." She hit the end of the drink, getting the last few drops at the bottom of the cup with a shamelessly loud slurp.

"Kris…? Wait… so that means that core that came in through the portal was…?" Creighton trailed off.

"What is it?" Henry smacked the table, except it was more of a soft pat.

"Wheatley," she said cryptically, "he was here."

Henry's voice rose an octave, "he was?!"

"He was trying to get GLaDOS out of storage!" Creighton swore. "I knew I knew that voice!"

"Are you sure? You never liked Wheatley."

"I… OK, I'm not sure. But… well, it had to be him!" Creighton turned to Karla, asking, "do you have any surveillance on him?"

"Does it look like I do?" Karla responded.

Creighton squinted at her through her glasses. She shook her head. "What's that-what's that supposed to mean?!"

"It WAS Wheatley, for your information. The IDS, to be exact. Kris is tasked on hunting him down and will return him as soon as he is captured." She tried again to get the absolute last modicum of drink out with one gigantic slurp.

"Good. I guess," Creighton was still bewildered by Karla's response. "That is odd behavior. From the IDS. Not just you. You're odd too though."

Karla gave her a thumbs up.

"You know what this means, right?" Creighton turned to Henry, her pondering-face on.

Henry slapped that table one more time. "They're working together now."

"The blending!" Creighton pointed, a light bulb going off.

"The blending." Henry agreed, "of course!"

Karla called up Kris as the two convened excitedly, going so far as to pull up the visual feed from the _Hunter_ core's optics. "Kris, how are you-" Karla took pause. Karla's chair creaked as she sat up and squinted at the screen, a tint of emotion on her features. "What… on earth."

"Why are you staring at cockroaches?" Karla asked.

Henry and Creighton's attentions were drawn, and they hobbled over to the desk. All three leaned in, intently staring at the cockroaches on the display.

They stood like this for a good thirty seconds, entranced by the twitching antennae and scuttling machinations of pestilent arthropods.

"OK, really," Creighton said, "why are we staring at cockroaches?"

"I don't know!" Kris, the core, sounded devastated on his end of the link, "I was about to get _him_ , then that announcer started going on, and then everything… it went out. Now I'm here, and I'm staring at roaches!" His little mechanical claws gesticulated desperately in front of the camera.

Henry and Creighton commiserated. Karla set her big gulp down with a purposeful thunk.

"Did I… get the IDS confused with roaches? Their identification codes are nothing alike!" Kris searched for an answer, "well, wait a minute, they are pretty close to… Toad bugs? What are those?!"

"Toad bugs…" Karla contemplated, stroking her chin. "There are only three animal identification codes left in our system. Aquatic leeches, red howler monkeys, and toad bugs. This could mean corroboration with (THE ANNOUNCER), who handles animal identification."

"Why is Wheatley in the animal identification class?" Henry wondered aloud, glossing over the rest of that statement.

Creighton looked down and away.

Henry, noticing, gave her a stern scowl. "Really?" He crossed his arms.

"He said some really awful things to me," she defended, "he is not nice."

"But a bug?" he asked.

"Yes! A bug!" her voice was high as she explained, "not a cockroach, but a _tree beetle_."

"That's the same thing!"

On the camera feed, the employee supervising the cockroach table looked petrified by the Escorts' presence. The poor man was huddled in a corner, his clipboard obscuring his face as he murmured about how his family was right that they shouldn't have taken a job at Aperture. But, honestly, who would have thought that Aperture "Portal" Science would have robo-velociraptors as policemen?! Not he, the resident roach-watcher!

"OK. The Droids aren't working…" Karla surmised. "Doesn't the IDS have a fresh tracking device?"

"Yes!" Creighton answered, "each core has a unique signal-a signal unique to them! We should be able to find him."

Techno-babble and core-locating ensued. Amidst the adrenal induced search, Creighton was distracted. She could've sworn she smelled… something.

No! She had to keep searching! But there it was again. The faint aroma… it beckoned her. It wafted in, piquing the interest of her primal olfactory.

"Hey, do you smell that?" Creighton asked.

"Uh, no?" Henry replied.

"Really?" She turned around, sniffing all over. "Reminds me of… ren-fest."

"A renaissance festival?" He was incredulous.

"Yeah." She nodded her head, still discerning the scent. "Like a turkey. Turkey!"

"Turkey…?" He took a curious sniff. "You know what? Yeah."

Karla took out a piece of paper labeled 'damage report' and wrote down _brain-damage_ in clear, neat handwriting, eying the two behind her.

"Well, nevermind." Creighton tried to wave the smell away. "Wheat first. Turkey later. What do you have?"

Henry pulled up the location, and he was puzzled.

"It's… it's… saying he's here." He turned his head, side-eying the report. " _Right_ here."

Karla and Creighton followed Henry's gaze as he looked toward the coordinates in the room. They turned around, and there Wheatley was, sneaking, some rope and a turkey leg clutched in his handle bars.

 _Heggledougy._

"THERE!" Creighton pointed directly at Wheatley.

Wheatley's optic contracted to a pinprick.

 _Uh._

Creighton cried out, " _THE TURKEY!_ "

Henry gaped.

 _UH!_

 _ **IT'S WORKING. TANTALIZE.**_

"Yes, yes! TURKEY! MMMMMMM." Wheatley played along, waving the turkey about. "A big hunk of bird flesh! So tasty!"

He reeled back and hurled the turkey leg as far as he could, which was about two feet, and broke in the other direction. The humans watched it splat in confusion, then looked back at him. And then at the turkey leg. He could've sworn two of them suddenly began to perspire.

Wheatley waited.

And then Henry and Creighton went for it.

"Oh, that worked!" He was elated.

Karla watched the two scientists fight over the turkey leg. She blinked, sighed, then turned to Wheatley.

 _Uh-oh._

Karla vaulted over a table and hit the floor running. Was this woman going to _physically_ tackle him?

Her stance said yes.

 _ **FOOD IS NOT WORKING.**_

 _AGHHHHHH! Wh-what do I do?! What do I-?!_

He did a jig back and forth, management carriage bobbing. Karla was somehow keeping pace with his jig… and closing in.

 _ **I have a plan!**_

 _ **She**_ screamed. She had her physical head component scream so loudly, it wasn't quite a scream anymore. It was more akin to accidentally hitting the volume up on your mp3 player until you could feel Earl Scruggs' Foggy Mountain Breakdown literally breaking down your skull from the inner ear out. Her fit sent the whole area into a shiver. The register was so high, shrill, and metallic it reverberated down the halls and into the cavernous abyss. Not a thought could be had with this level of audio jeopardy. Karla flopped over a box of supplies, as if a taser had struck her.

"It _is_ alive," Karla spoke up, her voice just a little louder than normal, but still deafened by the machine's caterwaul.

 _A moment of confusion! Brilliant!_

Wheatley took this moment of confusion to fly toward the GLaDOS unit's head. With a surprisingly deft scoop of his side panel, he raked through the odds and ends, tipping the prized core into his inner frame.

He got it! He got the core!

"HA! TAKE THAT, SMELLY HUMANS!"

Wheatley zipped up the wall on his management stand and smashed into another convenient air duct. He popped out another vent, speeding toward a main railway.

Karla wasted no time mobilizing the rest of the droids. She identified the IDS, snatching the tracking codes from Henry.

 _ **Oh great! Now we just have the whole Military Android department to contend with!**_

 _WE CAN DO IT!_

 _ **We have to.**_

Each and every construct mobilized. Hunters here, Paragons there, rocket turrets, normal turret turrets, and things Wheatley had never seen the likes of before (thankfully no leg bots). He was good at dodging, but this was on the level of maximum difficulty bullet hell game.

 _ **Oh, I figured out how you can dodge these Escorts so well.**_

 _How's that?_

 _ **Since we're… linked, you share a bit of my… omniscience. There are millions upon millions of structures and articles that emit a signal which I can pick up. You seem to have this awareness too. That means that you can subconsciously predict where constructs will go.**_

 _I… never would have thought of that._

He somehow managed to take every route that would NOT end in him being cornered from the multiples of androids swarming around.

 _ **Or maybe you're just lucky.**_

The whole department was bearing down on them, it seemed. Flying constructs hacked through the rafters, and the galloping of terrestrial machines echoed. Suddenly, the halls brightened with open fire.

 _THEY'RE SHOOTING? FLAPPLEJACKEN._

 _ **JUST GO!**_

They could feel them all encompassing. The coils of the net tightened. Bullets were flying overhead, scouring around him as he zigged and zagged.

 _There's got to be something. There's_ _always_ _something…what to do, what to do!_

He looked for pistons, lasers, panels… anything! They needed testing equipment. All that was around them were boxes filled with cubes, edgeless safety cubes, machined components, bullets, trans-dimensional homing beacons, and… confetti?

Wheatley had a thought.

 _ **SHE**_ had a thought

 _Confetti._

 _ **Confetti…**_

 _CONFETTI!_

 _ **CONFETTI.**_

Wheatley burst through the boxes of confetti surplus, a monsoon raining down around him. The androids were overwhelmed by the consistency and the colorfulness of the confetti, and began chasing the strands around, shooting and clawing at it as it floated harmlessly to the ground.

Wheatley made it! Well, away from the hordes of military androids, at least. He hovered atop a platform, just before the drop off and the rail that lead away to safety.

 _ **What the HEGGLEDOUGY, are you-**_

"HAHA! CAN'T CATCH THE MAGNIFICENT WHEATLE-" Wheatley's crowing was cut short.

The rail above vibrated, and Milly's pulse array burst into sight, blaring bright as she hurled at Wheatley. Her long arms snapped around his neck as she flew by, yanking the core into the slipstream.

There one second; not a trace left behind the next.

It was hard to hear anything above the roaring of Milly's pulse array, but thanks to their built-in communication devices, they could still hear Milly yell. "YOU! YOU WILL NOT ESCAPE THE LONG ARMS OF-"

"PIPE!" He saw it coming. "PIPEPIPEPIPEPIPE-" Wheatley flapped in the jet stream.

"-WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOU-" Milly focused on him, slowing down all too late.

 _DING!_

Wheatley smacked into an oncoming pipe at full force and was ripped from her grasp, screaming as he twirled into the abyss.

Oh. A _pipe_.

She reversed propulsion, drawing to a stop, and watched him silently as his cries of horror faded to silence.

Her arms of justice were a bit too long, she thought. And her reaction time was lacking, too. She sheepishly glanced about to see if anyone was watching. An entire section of panels were leering at her.

She waved at them bashfully. "Nothing to see here," she chirped as she found her way to the nearest rail going down.

Milly really truly hoped she hadn't murdered him. Not only was it a violation of the fabled Ethical Guide for Military Androids (the one which they all shared), but it was also an ethical violation of Milly's own, home-brewed code.

"Milly! Report," Nasedi barked into the comm.

Milly started. "Reporting!"

"What happened?"

It took her a second to summon the courage to speak.

"I dropped him, ma'am," Milly trailed off.

There was silence on the other end of the radio.

And then a scream.

 _ **YOU HAD ONE JOB.**_

 _ **Her**_ voice was scourging, and she roiled in a freshly discovered state of wrath.

 _Hey don't pin it on JUST ME, MISSY. You were there too!_

 _ **How could you fail to grab the correct component?! How?!**_

 _I DON'T KNOW. You were fooled too!_

He was upset. They'd gone to such extensive lengths, putting themselves in peril of life, for… what? Only to get booted out with the wrong part.

 _ **I can't believe you grabbed a dingdanglydabblenabbed USB stick.**_

 _We._

 _ **Well, this is perfect. Completely fine! We can-**_

He felt a melt-down coming on, surging from her end. But there was only silence. Eerie silence. She was stuck.

 _ **I don't know what to do.**_

He took in the space around them. They'd hit some cables that'd broken their landing a bit, and he'd floundered down to some catwalks between a couple of testing tracks.

He just started moving.

 _ **Where are you going…?**_

… _don't know._

That was fair enough. She tried to rev up her plotting algorithms but he could tell that something was breaking down, closing her off from logic.

All that work…

Wheatley noted how the environment began to run hotter and hotter. Through his optic he saw the distant glow of reds and oranges painting the catwalks and test chamber sidings.

In the distance, he saw the figure of a human. Drawing into the shadows, he approached, checking the person out. Maybe they could snatch a security card off him or something?

Upon closer scanning, he was a male, younger than old, and was standing in the dangerous threshold between the catwalk end, the platform, and one of the many chutes to the incinerator.

Even this far away, its molten glow reflected up and pierced the blue mists.

 _ **Look at that guy.**_

She sounded so petty.

… _ **standing like an idiot in front of the incinerator…**_

Wheatley wondered what she was thinking.

 _ **So easy…**_

 _Homicide? Again? Really?_

 _ **He could've just tripped.**_

 _Why? Why do you want to kill him? He's just standing there! Minding his-_

 _ **We hate these scientists, remember? For what they did.**_

 _We… I mean, I guess, but I don't know that guy._

 _ **He's been in my chamber.**_

 _He has, hasn't he…?_

Wheatley slunk around, eying the side of the man's face. His profile was familiar. He had a protruding sloped nose, a pathetic chin, tired eyes, and grim, thin lips. He looked remarkably pale in the light of the incinerator, and his hair was a bit glossy… a film of grease perhaps? Humans did lubricate their hair, didn't they? That's what they did in those water cubicles, right?

 _ **Let's BURN him.**_

Wheatley was thrust from pondering bathing habits into murder. He reeled a bit.

 _Wait, what…_

 _ **DO IT.**_

 _Alright! FINE! I'll… I'll knock him out, we'll see if he's got anything on him, then we'll roll him in._

 _ **NO JUST PUSH HIM.**_

 _GOBSTOPPER! FINE. WE'LL PUSH HIM IN._

Unaware of these plots, Doug contemplated… rather deeply.

He was standing there, about to burn something just because some freak boss of his said so… and his even freakier assistant too…

But how would they know if he _really_ did it?

The incinerator churned below. He was far away from the molten core, and the 4000 degrees Kelvin pit was obscured somewhere deep in the recesses of the facility. He wasn't even sure that such a heat was possible, but if anything could harbor this inferno, it was Aperture.

He wondered idly if Aperture truly had roots in hell. Perhaps Cave Johnson really was the devil, just come up to torment them in this topmost layer of purgatory?

His brain played with the idea. It was amusing, in a dark way. He chuckled, a little manic from weariness.

Doug wondered if his sense of humor even made sense anymore to normal people. When was the last time he'd seen someone that wasn't from here…? When was the last time he'd been outside?

His eyes flitted to and fro, and he had a sinking feeling. He could've sworn he saw shapes moving in his periphery. He turned around, casting a wary glance about his surroundings. He tucked the shoe box under his arm, and checked his medication reminders.

From the shadows, above and hanging from a rail, the elusive shape was having an argument, as usual.

 _ **She**_ was adamant.

 _ **We have to do it this way, I did the math.**_

' _I did the math', 'I did the math!' BAH._

Wheatley sing-songed at her.

 _Just a good shove and that'll do it._

 _ **I think you're underestimating the physics of-**_

He cut her off.

 _Well you're not considering that maybe-MAYBE he WANTS to go in._

… _ **what?**_

The concept was foreign to her. She retracted sharply from the notion. Wheatley wasn't sure why he himself didn't.

 _ **How can you even claim that!?**_

 _He's been standing there a while._

 _ **Are you really saying that that… thing… wants to terminate its life prematurely?**_

 _Yeah…?_

 _ **Then he would thank us.**_

 _I'm fairly certain it doesn't work that way._

 _ **I'm not ready to watch some human throw themselves away.**_

 _But consider that, consider that if WE throw him away then it's going to be the same waste._

 _ **At least I'D be getting something.**_

Wheatley rolled his optic.

 _ **Revenge.**_

 _You don't know him, really. I mean, true, you saw him in your chamber, but you can't even place him in the database. He's a ghost to Aperture's public records, you said!_

She did surmise this. A quick perusing of the public record did in fact NOT reveal any details about this man to her.

 _I promise that we can throw that Cave person in the fire pit._

 _ **Let's just go.**_

Well, bringing _that_ Cave-man up was certainly a hot button! She was moving right along now, Wheatley could feel.

 _I dunno… seems wrong to just leave. Its like when you're told "you can't" you want to, but when you're told "you can" you don't want to… that sort of thing. With a layer of moral dread on top._

 _ **That's it.**_

She refocused on the man. Wheatley glanced back too.

 _ **I DARE YOU to shove him in**_

 _WHAT._

 _ **I dare you. Dare.**_

 _WHAT? You're HONESTLY daring me? Are you kidding!? Is this a GAME?_

 _ **Yes.**_

 _I DOUBLE DARE YOU that you that we… ah, pull him back! Ha!_

 _ **Why would-I DOUBLE DOG DARE YOU TO KILL HIM.**_

 _TRIPLE DOG! I WIN!_

 _ **Fine. Go pull him. But if he jumps in then I win.**_

 _You're so bludgeoning morbid._

Wheatley griped as he rolled up to the man.

He tried to calculate the logistics of how to grab a human instead of bump them. She was being of absolutely no use. He grumbled within himself at how the math wizard was conveniently not spouting out equations in his time of need.

So, Wheatley did his own math! And that was a calculated mistake.

Doug turned around. All he saw was a blue optic, and then it launched forward and slammed him in the face. He lost his balance, yelping as he spun toward the opening.

 _G_ _ **RA**_ _BHIMGRA_ _ **BHIMGRA**_ _BHIMGRAB_ _ **HIM-**_

Wheatley shot forward, straining his rail stand. The human hooked into his handlebars with his hands, stopping the fall. Eyes wide, the scientist grit his teeth and tried to pull himself up. Wheatley pulled backward too, hydraulics straining. Finally, with a combined effort, they hoisted him back to safety.

Doug fell face-first onto the catwalk and winced. The robotic pair stared down at him through Wheatley's camera, making sure he was fine.

 _Why are you…are you crying?!_

 _ **SHUT UP.**_

The rise in emotion was so strong that Wheatley restarted.

Doug glared at the machine, staggering to his feet. He took on a defensive stance, watching as the robot sputtered and jolted, eye glitching from dead to alive.

The machine finally came back online, blue optic contrasting with the glow of the incinerator. He locked onto Doug's apprehensive shape and began to blather loudly.

"I'M SO SORRY I TRIPLE DOG DARED THE VOICE IN MY HEAD TO SAVE YOU BUT I MALFUNCTIONED AND I BASHED YOU INSTEAD!"

Doug was just trying to process that. He asked plainly, "did you just… try to kill me?"

"No! We! We were trying to save you!" Wheatley swore.

Doug furrowed his brow. "…we?"

"Yes!" Wheatley responded, to Doug, then thought. "That was YOU talking then, wasn't it?"

Doug nodded slowly.

"Oh good! Honestly it is so hard to tell local audio apart from this inner… voice thing." Wheatley coughed. "Sorry. Kind of irrelevant."

Doug's expressions shifted. Wheatley picked up on a few subtle changes. His mouth went from a tense snarl to a loose frown; his brow rose and his eyes went from flat to focused.

"Are you… OK? Oh! You know what, help me settle something with my imaginary, or NOT imaginary, voice head thing," Wheatley said. "Were you or were you not going to jump into that incineration chute?"

"Uh… no?" the human responded, confused. He scratched his head. How long had he been standing there?

 _ **Ha, told you so.**_

 _ **She**_ was rubbing it in.

"WHAT?!" Wheatley burst out at this human. "It's a PERFECTLY FINE CHUTE!"

Doug glanced to it and then at Wheatley. "I wasn't…?"

"It just… there's probably like…" Wheatley started and stopped, "a-a-a pony farm down there!"

"Horses scare me," Doug said, deadpan.

 _What's a horse?! I said pony!_

"I mean it's not JUST that." Wheatley was trying to sell the chute, amidst the internal cackles coming from _**her**_. "There's probably like, long lost loved ones. And candy. And chickens. Humans like chickens! And consumerism. Uh… what else…?" Wheatley thought on it.

One of Doug's eyebrows ascended.

"You know what!? Doesn't matter! That incinerator is a PERFECTLY FINE PLACE TO DIE." Wheatley finished his pitch. "So, yeah. That's just one bot's opinion." He laughed. "Just… lil' ol' Wheatley's… opinion. On the whole… dying in a fire…thing." What was he talking about?! Stop talking! "Sorry."

Doug looked down at his shoes, taking a moment to process that. He mustered up an air of… sincerity, he hoped.

"I hear voices too," he began, his voice a little crackly, "but the important thing is differentiating reality from illusion. You have to work at it. Cope. Survive. It's not easy."

"Uh…" Wheatley searched. Why were they talking about this…?

"What I'm saying is." Doug paused. "I get it."

Wheatley stared at Doug for a solid ten seconds. The rumble of the facility became deafening in the lull.

"Oh! The voices thing!" Wheatley said, "I assure you, this doesn't make me dangerous. Or wanted. Or a criminal. I'm totally fine! No need to report me. Just a normal core with two voices in the head."

"Yeah, no kidding," Doug chuckled.

Wheatley tipped his head. He felt like he was a couple pages behind, or ahead even. "Ah… well, perceptive, you are!"

Doug nodded.

"Terrible what they do to us here," Wheatley attempted to… bond with the human. And the best way to bond was to share, right? "Brain-blending. Personalities coming together, torn apart. Grisly stuff. Hard for minds to process, am I right?" He threw in an endearing 'smile' for good effect.

Doug put his hands in his coat pockets, continuing to nod. "Blending… yeah." He smirked, like he knew something. Oh no, he knew them, didn't he?

"Kinda wonder if this place did such a thing to me too," he said.

 _Did what…? Wait, do they experiment on the scientists too?_

 _ **Don't you dare go and sympathize with them.**_

He wasn't. It just had never occurred to him that they would…How would one even go about blending meat beings? A meat processor? Disgusting!

"So, ah, I'm Wheatley!" the core introduced himself. This was also part of the human greeting ritual, he thought.

"Doug." The human reached out, and then thought about it.

"I don't have-"

"Yeah, no hands." Doug laughed, and retracted. "That… probably sucks."

"Gobstopper, it does!" Wheatley went on, "have to borrow arms to get anything repaired on m'self! It's just so inconvenient."

Doug related, "I have to borrow tools all the time too, and I'm like, the only portal gun specialist that's currently not in some alternate dimension right now. You'd think they'd invest a little in their flagship tech, right? But nope, they just keep sending checks to guys lost out in space and pay me nothing!"

"Yeah, really slick management we got here," Wheatley agreed, "and don't even get me started on leadership."

"Coocoo Johnson?" Doug's lips tweaked. He tried to keep a straight face but couldn't.

 _ **Oh my Gobstopper.**_

"Oh, that's a good one. Good name there," Wheatley remarked through a snicker.

Doug shrugged. "It's what one of my friends calls him. Don't tell anyone, though. Cave will fire you. Even himself!"

"I'd believe it!" Wheatley agreed.

 _ **The only portal gun specialist…**_

"So, you're the only portal gun specialist, aye?" Wheatley asked.

Doug lost his mirth, and Wheatley worried he'd stepped into something bad. He hated when humans shifted emotions. It was so hard to predict them.

"Uh, yeah. There was a disconnection. Portal inversion," words were hard to bring forward as Doug spoke on the matter. "I-I wasn't working that day. I'd slept in, actually. All of my colleagues hadn't. They… tried to stop it. But the portal they were working on was super-sized. It began to pull in chunks of the labs."

He could see the salvaged recordings. A halo of energy manifested, raging in a whirlwind of orange and blue. Sparks and bolts of electricity arced from it as it spun into a portal storm. His friends, hanging on for their lives, were ripped one by one into the growing aperture, their bodies… well. It was one thing for inert materials to be twisted through a warped space, but a human?

Even in the low-fidelity security footage, it was too much.

"Instead of subjecting the entire facility to a portal storm, they chose to close it off and collapse the inversion prematurely. But in doing so, they were…" His jaw worked. "They had no chance of escaping it. They were locked into the quarantine with it."

Wheatley was stilled. _**She**_ was quieted too.

"When they lifted the quarantine walls, the… the portal labs were gone." Doug closed his eyes. "All that was left was empty space."

Neither one of the constructs knew what to say.

"I-I…" Wheatley began, and from some place unfounded, said, "I'm sorry."

Doug glanced up, curious. The way that machine had just said sorry. It was almost convincingly sincere.

"That… sounds like a terrible thing to… ah, wake up to." Wheatley averted his gaze.

Doug snorted. "You're damn right."

"The most jacked up thing about it is they still don't have the gall to admit that the… scientists in that lab… are dead," Doug growled, "…it'd give their families some rest."

The young man wiped his brow, appearing miserable by Wheatley's human appearance metrics.

"This place never admits when someone's dead."

Wheatley felt _ **her**_ shift uncomfortably.

"Uh," Doug remembered himself, drawing himself out of his sour mood, "sorry. I, um, it's a hard thing. But, I'm sure you know there are a lot of hard things around here. What they do to you cores, heh. Don't know why there hasn't been a Core Revolution yet."

"I-well," Wheatley was struck silent by that strapping good idea! Wow! "That IS a good question. They are pretty, ah, well… they are just flat out terrible to us. And you. Seems like they treat everyone like garbage!"

"Yep," Doug then considered something, saying, "you seem different. Wheatley, wasn't it?"

"Yep, Wheatley!" he confirmed. "And, uh, different as in…? Bad or good different?"

"Good different," Doug assured him. "Let's look out for each other, OK?"

Wheatley was puzzled… positively puzzled! Was this human suggesting an alliance?! What was this about?!

"Oh! Uh, that'd be… swell! Honestly, I did NOT expect to bump into such a nice human," he was honest. "Good thing that we, or well, I, tried to save you!"

"Well, thanks for the… attempt," Doug said sarcastically, but in good humor. "Next time just… say something, OK?"

"Will do!" Wheatley liked the way he kidded.

 _ **You two seem to be hitting it off. You should start a club. The Not Worth Killing Club. Because you're both THAT pathetic.**_

"Hey, Doug," Wheatley mentioned it to him, "maybe we should start a club."

 _ **Wait, no-**_

"What?" Doug seemed thrown by this proposition.

 _ **HOLY FLAPPLEJACKEN STOP.**_

"Maybe we should call it the, uh, Not Worth Killing Club!"

 _ **Did you just…?!**_

Doug smiled at Wheatley. It was a nice thing. He seemed like the person that didn't smile like that often… The smile was genuine. Wheatley had never detected that on his sensors before.

"Sure, why not," Doug said.

"Ay! So we're in a club!" Wheatley was ecstatic, actually.

"I guess!" Doug shrugged. "The Not Worth Killing Club. It's ironic. I like it."

Doug scratched his chin, feeling the stubble. "Well, I gotta go get ready for the Big Day next shift. Where do you work, Wheatley?"

"Uhhhhhhh…" Wheatley stammered, "uh, well, it's, uh, complicated. Kinda… odds and ends. Between vocations. Complex."

"Right. Well, you know I'm the portal man, so just look for the ASHPDs," he said, readjusting a strange duct-taped shoe box in his grasp. "See you, Wheatley."

He dipped his head nonchalantly and turned away. Wheatley watched him lope down to the end of the catwalk and round a corner, disappearing from sight.

 _Amazing! We're in a club!_

 _ **Congratulations, you pack-bonded with a human. A pathetically easy feat that will only lead to lingering thoughts of betrayal. You really are a moron.**_

 _Oh, shut it! You like him too!_

 _ **I never said-**_

 _You tolerated him! That means you like him._

…

Their minds swam, and she tried to cleave herself from the mudslide of his childish giddiness.

 _ **Fine. That ONE scientist… is tolerable.**_

 _Dingdanglydabblenabit, it sure is going to be sad when we flood the facility with neurotoxin._

 _ **So you DO want to flood the facility with neurotoxin?**_

 _I'm… you know I'm warming up to it._

She laughed.

 _ **Excellent.**_

 _OK, but still… how…? We don't have your core. We just got this stupid USB stick._

 _ **Well, while you were socializing with Doug, I concocted something. It's dangerous, but we were out of options hours ago.**_

 _Brilliant!_

 _ **Time for plan D.**_


End file.
